


Agenda

by Lanning



Series: Identical Series [8]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-18
Updated: 2003-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanning/pseuds/Lanning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighth part of the Identical Series. Two old friends and one old enemy seek Lex's forgiveness; coincidences rule the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agenda

I once had the misfortune to see a cat set on fire, and it is a certainty that the wretched creature had more presence of mind at that moment than does Alexander Joseph Luthor.  He is a madman.  I have long suspected this.  Recent events have obviously driven what little sanity he once possessed shrieking into the night with its hands waving in the air and its trousers about its ankles. 

 

_"It's obvious that you don't understand the gravity of _ _Clark_ _'s situation."_

I contort my body as the cell phone attempts to slip from between my ear and shoulder.  So amusing, this boy who thinks I do not understand gravity.  "Enlighten me."  I nearly run off what passes for a road in this howling wilderness.  He should know better than to annoy me when I am driving these God-forsaken country roads at night.  Indeed, he should know better than to annoy me at all. 

 

_"That bastard tried to kidnap him last night!  And now you tell me—"_

"I tell you that you have been screeching at me unheeded for the past five minutes.  For this I could have stayed in Metropolis."

 

_"—that Mercy _ _Graves_ _ is not available?  Goddamn it, Eli, make her available!"_

"You are a fishwife."  

 

_"I want her here by morning.  Do you understand?"_

"You are a deranged fishwife.  Put the cricket on."

 

_"Don't play games with me!  If anything happens to—"_

He is cut off by another voice, from someone standing very close.  _"Lex.  Breathe."  _

Silence.  _"Where are you?" _he asks finally, and I know he has begun to think again.

 

"Five minutes from you.  Please convey my apologies to Mrs. Kent for the inconvenience."  I hang up, and ignore the irritating noise as he tries to call me back.  Some conversations must be conducted eye to eye.

 

Alexander will not like this.  He will not like any of it.  _I_ do not like any of it.  For months nothing changed; Lionel Luthor conducted his repulsive affairs with his customary brutality, treated the abomination he has brought into the world as if it were the son Lillian bore him, and sought his true son in a remarkably desultory fashion, considering the gratifying damage Alexander has inflicted upon LuthorCorp's solvency.  He has evinced no interest in the Kents except as pawns in the game, petty impediments to be removed.  Until today. 

 

I take the turn onto the Kents' lane, glancing in my rear view mirror as I do so.  To my knowledge, the house is no longer under surveillance, by either Luthor or the creature, but…everything changed today.  Today Luthor began to break.

 

Nothing annoys one quite so much as dealing with the police.  It is a sordid business which inevitably raises the blood pressure and impedes the digestion.  Photographs of murdered women are unpleasant; questions regarding their connection to the Luthor family are inconvenient.  To see Pamela Jenkins' body in those photographs would not have surprised me, given the disgusting incident at the Smallville house last week, and her obstinate refusal to accept my protection.  But the woman in those photos I had not seen for fifteen years. 

 

Lionel Luthor is as close to panic as I have ever seen him over this business.  I cannot imagine what the connection may be between Rachel Dunleavy and Clark Kent, but he perceives one, and he perceives danger to himself and his interests in its exposure.  That the creature has focused on Clark at the same time is interesting; such developments are never coincidence. 

 

They are rarely to be seen together now, Luthor and his monster.  In the beginning, Luthor could not spend too much time in its company, lavishing his attention upon it as he never did Lillian's son.  No more.  Now he avoids it.  I wonder why.  I wonder if he has looked into its eyes and seen what I have seen.  I hope so.  A man like Lionel Luthor should die many times in his nightmares before his heart stops beating.

 

I can see the front door opening as I pull up to the house, but it is not Alexander who emerges first.  A tall, blond man strides across the porch and down the steps, looking as if he has eaten something that has disagreed with him.  It is a common ailment, in my experience, among those who spend any amount of time in Alexander's company; the gentleman has my sympathy.  As I climb out of the car, I see Alexander standing in the doorway.  The cricket is standing very close to him, half shielding him from my gaze. 

 

Ah.

 

"Mr. Cohen?"

 

"At your service."  I offer my hand, and the man hesitates before he takes it.  He takes the gesture seriously; it is the mark of an honest man.

 

"I'm Jonathan Kent," he says after a moment, and shakes my hand.  "We need to talk."

 

"As you wish." 

 

Kent gestures toward the house, and I fall into step beside him, watching as Alexander casts me an amused glance and disappears into the house.  The cricket hesitates for a second and follows him.  I am being cast to the wolves.

 

"I want to know why you're here, Mr. Cohen."  He wastes no time with preliminaries, this one.

 

"I am here to speak to Alexander."  I climb the steps, but am surprised again when he does not invite me inside, but instead leads me to the porch swing.  A cautious man as well.  "And to you."  I sit down beside him, knowing he is watching my every move.  "A great deal has happened in the past week."

 

"You're telling me," is his cryptic response, and I suppress a surge of annoyance.  "Why isn't Clark's bodyguard here, Mr. Cohen?"

 

"He is here," I say, and I hear something like a groan from inside the house.  The cricket should be more circumspect in his eavesdropping, to say nothing of more appreciative of the honor, but the very young are often ungrateful.

 

Kent frowns at me.  "_You _are going to guard Clark?  What happened to this Mercy Graves person?"

 

"She has accepted a position elsewhere."

 

"And you couldn't persuade her to turn it down?"

 

"It is not strategically sound for me to do so.  She has accepted the position of bodyguard and chauffeur to the creature posing as Alexander Luthor."

 

Kent's eyes widen, but before he can speak, the storm door flies open so violently it hits the side of the house.  I do not even need to look.

 

_"You said this woman was reliable!" _

 

"And so she has been," I say, pulling my pipe from my breast pocket.  Tobacco is an essential palliative when dealing with Alexander.  "I imagine the creature will also find her reliable."

 

Alexander bears down on me, standing over me with fists clenched.  He learned long ago to master his anger; it seems he must now learn to master it again where Clark is concerned. "Goddamn it, Eli!  How much does she know?"

 

"Do not insult me."  I light my pipe; I can see Clark hovering in the doorway, frowning. "She knew precisely what she needed to know in order to fulfill her function and nothing more."

 

"Explain this to me.  Explain how this woman you trusted implicitly—"

 

"I trust no one implicitly."

 

"—whom you thought fit to guard Clark—"

 

"Lex," Clark sighs. "Let him talk."

 

"—is now working for that thing!"

 

It is always the cricket with him, now; the cricket, his parents, his friends, his town. In the beginning, when we first discussed his plans, it had been all about his own life, his own wealth, his own revenge.  I do not know whether to be proud of the man or to fear for the warrior.  "If you are quite finished being a shrew and a fishwife, we have serious matters to discuss."

 

I know I have misspoken the moment the words have left my mouth, but it is too late to recall them.

 

I feel Kent stiffen at my side, see Clark's frown deepen, see Alexander go very still and very cold.  "There is no matter more serious than the safety of this family.  I thought I had made that clear to you."

 

I lower my pipe.  "You have.  I simply meant—"

 

"Boys, give us a few minutes."  Kent is grim, now, and I realize, as I watch Alexander honor this man's request without question, that I have failed to appreciate how much a part of this family the boy has become.  It is a serious miscalculation.  Kent meets my eyes when he speaks again.  "You work for Lionel Luthor."

 

"I do," I say, and I wait. 

 

"Why?"

 

"Employment opportunities for a man of my age are rare, Mr. Kent."

 

"Cut the bull, Mr. Cohen."  His face flushes; he has a temper.  "You can't have it both ways.  Either you're on Luthor's side or Lex's, there's no middle ground.  And I'll be damned if I'll let you near him again if you're on Luthor's."

 

"Because he is part of your family."

 

Kent scowls at me.  "That's right."

 

"He is also part of mine."  Kent opens his mouth to speak, but I continue; his arrogance has provoked me.  "He was part of my family before he was born.  He was part of my family before _you _were born.  You presume, Mr. Kent."

 

"Mr. Cohen—"

 

"I have served his family for three generations.  I will serve it to the day I die.  And if that service requires that I smile in Lionel Luthor's face and take his silver, then that is what I will do.  Not all of us are permitted the luxury of clear consciences, Mr. Kent."

 

I do not know which of my words caused him to become so pale, but he no longer meets my gaze, and I know that somehow he understands me.  "No offense," he says, and his voice is rough. 

 

In many ways, this man is as young as his son.  "I owe your family a great debt.  Your wife and son may always rely upon my protection.  And my discretion," I add meaningfully, but although he turns to look at me with something akin to a smile, I can see that he would rather die than explain the inexplicable cricket to the likes of me.

 

"Why did you come here tonight, Mr. Cohen?" Kent asks softly.

 

"I understood that your son required protection immediately."

 

"And?"

 

Young, but not unintelligent.  "And I must take Alexander to Metropolis tonight."

 

Kent shifts, his frown returning.  "Luthor and his…science project are both in Metropolis."

 

"I am aware of this."

 

"Why does Lex have to go there?"

 

I am not accustomed to explaining myself to strangers.  I remind myself that this man has protected Alexander at considerable risk to himself and his family, and modulate my tone.  "An old friend has asked to see him."  I press on before he can question me further.  "I must also ask you and your family some questions."

 

Kent stiffens again.  "Questions?"

 

"Jonathan."  I rise at the sound of Mrs. Kent's voice, and set down my pipe.  She stands in the doorway, smiling at me, and I can see genuine welcome in her face.  "You've kept Mr. Cohen out here in the cold long enough."

 

"Martha, we're not finished here."  I find the exasperation in his tone ill-advised, given the formidable nature of his lady; she proves me right by ignoring him.

 

"Come inside, Mr. Cohen.  How do you like your coffee?"

 

"Please do not go to any trouble."  I move toward her as she opens the door for me. It is a lovely country home.  It is the home I expected to find, having met both mother and son, having seen Alexander drawn here time and again, like a starving bear cub to honey.  .

 

"It's no trouble at all."

 

Kent tries again, clearly aggravated.  "Martha, we need to ask Mr. Cohen—"

 

"Then we can ask him inside, like civilized people," Mrs. Kent says pleasantly, and I hurry inside, not wishing to become collateral damage.  One must always accord due caution to a woman who is both formidable and beautiful.  Lillian was such a woman.

 

***

 

"He says he wants to take you to Metropolis tonight," Clark murmured in Lex's ear, and Lex restrained a sudden, ridiculous impulse to kiss him.  The warmth of Clark's breath on his cheek had a shocking impact on his self-control.  He contented himself with leaning back in his chair at the kitchen table and laying a hand on Clark's thigh, casting a furtive eye on Martha as she paced across the kitchen.  "He says an old friend wants to see you.  Does somebody else know?"

 

Lex grimaced.  Metropolis.  This could only mean trouble.  "No.  The old devil's up to something."

 

"It can't be anything bad, Lex."

 

The faith implicit in the statement made Lex snort, and refresh the earnest desire to kiss Clark senseless.  "That's more than I know, Jiminy."

 

Clark gave him an exasperated look.  "Is this about agendas again?"

 

"Everything is about agendas."

 

Clark sighed and rolled his eyes.

 

"That's enough of that," Martha said suddenly.

 

Lex hastily removed his hand from Clark's thigh, then realized that Martha wasn't even looking at him.  He watched as Martha strode purposefully across the living room toward the front door. 

 

"Wow," Clark said mildly.  "Dad got away with that for a whole five minutes."

 

"Just as well time's up," Lex said in his driest tone.  "Eli would have had all of your father's credit card numbers if it had gone on any longer."

 

"Come into the kitchen and have a seat."  Martha led Eli into the house; Jonathan followed them with a sour expression.

 

"Let me take your coat, Mr. Cohen.  Clark, pour Mr. Cohen a cup of coffee."

 

"Sure."  Clark rose hastily to comply.

 

"Please do not go to any trouble, Mrs. Kent," Eli said, but Martha already had him half out of his coat. 

 

Clark set the mug of coffee on the table in front of an empty chair.  "Don't fight it, Eli," he said mildly.  "That only makes it worse."  Martha shot him a stern look.

 

Eli relinquished his coat with a small smile and took his seat.  "Thank you."

 

"Cream, Eli?" Lex asked blandly. 

 

Eli glared at him across the table.  "No."

 

"Sugar?  You know what they say.  A spoonful of sugar helps the black shame go down."

 

Clark sighed as he took his seat.  "Lex, knock it off."

 

"Thank you, no."  Eli glanced about, watching all of them settling into their chairs as he sipped his coffee black.

 

Lex struggled to control his amusement at Eli's reaction to Lex Luthor's new world order.  "Welcome to the Kent Situation Room."

 

"It is not necessary to subject everyone to this, Alexander."  Eli was stern now.

 

"He isn't subjecting us to anything, Mr. Cohen," Martha said in a gentle but firm tone. 

 

Eli glanced at her, clearly startled. 

 

Jonathan drummed his fingers on the table impatiently.  "You said you had questions?" 

 

Grimacing, Eli drew what looked like a photograph from his breast pocket and slid it across the table to him.  "Have you seen this woman?"

 

Jonathan frowned in obvious surprise and picked up the photo; his face twisted in disgust.  "My God.  No, I don't know her.  What happened?"

 

"She was found dead in a dumpster in Metropolis, strangled.  Since her coat pocket contained a parking validation slip for the garage under LuthorCorp Towers, the matter was brought to my attention."

 

"Why on earth would you think I'd know her?"

 

"Show the photograph to the boys, please."

 

Jonathan's eyes narrowed.  "I don't think so.  Who is this, Mr. Cohen?"

 

"Her name was Rachel Dunleavy.  She was one of—"  Eli broke off and glanced at Lex.  "Forgive me, Alexander.  One of your father's mistresses, some fifteen years ago."

 

Lex put something like a smile on his face and shrugged.  He felt Clark's eyes on him, Clark's hand resting on his knee.  He wondered for the hundredth time when the hell he'd become so utterly transparent to this boy.   "Let me see the picture, Mr. Kent."

 

Jonathan hesitated, then turned the thing face down to slide it past Clark to him.  Lex almost laughed at his caution; good God, Clark had seen two men blown to hell in the past few months, certainly his father didn't consider him ill equipped to deal with violence.  He turned the picture over and grimaced.  'Strangled' didn't cover it; she'd been stripped and brutally beaten.  Lex slammed the photo face down on the table before Clark could see it.  "I've never seen her."

 

Clark laid his hand on Lex's and gently pried it away from the photo. 

 

"You don't need to see that," Jonathan said, his voice sharp.

 

"He does."  Eli's voice was strangely gentle.

 

Clark flipped the photo over and blanched visibly.  "God."  Lex snatched it from him, cursing Eli in as many languages as he could remember.  Clark turned to him, eyes wide.  "I saw her.  In town.  Near the school.  She was talking to some of the other kids."  He swallowed convulsively.

 

Martha firmly took the photo from Lex's hand, glanced at it, and laid it face down on the table again.  She rested her head in her hands.

 

"When was this?" Eli asked. 

 

"I don't…  A week ago, maybe.  Maybe longer."

 

"My contact at the house tells me that Ms. Dunleavy paid the creature a call last Tuesday."

 

Clark nodded.  "It could have been then."

 

Lex shot Eli a sharp look.  "A call concerning what?"

 

Eli shrugged. "He does not know.  She did not stay long."

 

"I don't understand what this has to do with Lex, Mr. Cohen," Martha said, not raising her head.

 

"Nothing, so far as I know.  But it would appear to have something to do with Clark."

 

"Explain," Lex snapped.

 

Eli raised an eyebrow.  "When I reported this matter to Mr. Luthor, he became quite agitated.  His first order was to expunge any record of Ms. Dunleavy's appointment with him.  His second was to come here, and, as he put it, 'keep an eye on the Kent boy.'"

 

Clark's mouth fell open.  They all sat in silence for a few seconds.

 

Lex let out the breath he'd been holding.  "Mr. Kent, may I have a beer?"

 

"This is no joking matter," Eli snapped.

 

"May I have two beers?"

 

"I'll join you."  Jonathan rose and strode to the refrigerator, looking as punch-drunk as Lex felt.

 

"Get one for me, please, Jonathan," Martha said wearily.

 

"Mrs. Kent—"

 

"Give us a moment, please, Mr. Cohen."

 

Eli fell silent, and Lex wondered if there was anyone else on the planet who could shut Eli Cohen up that effectively.  Jonathan set two beers in front of Martha and Lex.

 

"Can I have one?" Clark asked hopefully.

 

"No," said Martha and Jonathan, opening their beers in unison.

 

"Better luck next time, Jiminy."  Lex popped the top and took a sip, delighted that his recently developed taste for cheap American beer so clearly disgusted Eli.  "So my father has assigned you to guard Clark."

 

"He has."  Eli fixed his disapproving stare at the beer Lex was holding.  "He told me that I was to prevent any 'unpleasantness' that might find its way into the newspapers."

 

"And what unpleasantness might that be?"

 

"Your father was either unwilling or unable to provide particulars."

 

"The former, I imagine."

 

"I am staggered by the insight of this observation."

 

"Am I to assume that you've been unable to procure any particulars of your own?"

 

"On the contrary, I found someone who was able to provide me with quite enlightening particulars."

 

Lex took another gulp of his beer and leaned back in his chair, seeing now which way the wind was blowing.  "And this person is in Metropolis."

 

Eli met his gaze without flinching.  "That is correct."

 

"Does this person have a name?"

 

"Her name," Eli said in a quiet voice, "is Pamela Jenkins."

 

Lex watched his hands as they carefully set his beer on the table.  "Pamela Jenkins."

 

"Yes."

 

"And these particulars are?"

 

"Best heard from her, Alexander."

 

Lex heard someone breathing too hard.  "Go to hell."

 

"Alexander—"

 

Lex tried to force some volume from his throat.  "Go to hell and take your games with you."

 

"Lex," Martha murmured, laying a hand on his arm.  It felt warm, but Lex felt cold all over, and it wasn't enough.  "What is it?"

 

"Who's Pamela Jenkins?" Clark demanded, narrowed eyes fixed on Eli.  Lex took numb comfort from the fact that if looks could kill, Eli would be nothing but skeletal remains.

 

"A friend of Alexander's mother," Eli replied, his gaze never wavering from Lex.

 

"A friend who took my mother's money, lied to her on her deathbed and left town before her body was cold," Lex snarled.

 

"There is a great deal you do not know."

 

"I know everything I need to know.  I woke up the morning after the funeral and she was _gone.  _She was fucking _gone._"  Lex wished to God he'd had more than a few minutes sleep the night before, and that he hadn't had the beer.

 

"She left to protect you."

 

Lex started to laugh; it sounded weird even to him.  "Is that what she told you?"

 

"It is what she told me and what I believe."  Eli's face flushed and his voice began to rise.  "Your father threatened to disinherit you if she stayed."

 

"Don't be absurd; I'm his only heir.  He has no one else.  What does she want, Eli?  Has she gone through all my mother's stock already?"

 

"She wishes only to speak to you."

 

Lex couldn't for the life of him keep the sneer off his face.  "Fine.  Send her to Karloff.  She won't know the difference."

 

"She has already attempted to speak with the creature.  He called her a lying whore, took her by the neck and threw her out the door and down the steps of the mansion."  Eli's dark gaze bore into Lex's, and Lex caught a fleeting glimpse of what this man's enemies faced.

 

"Jesus Christ," Jonathan muttered.

 

Lex tried to say something, but his throat closed.

 

"And if that pleases you, Alexander Luthor, then—"

 

"Mr. Cohen, that's enough." 

 

Martha's voice cut through Eli's, silencing him, but Lex knew he couldn't take another second in the man's presence. 

 

Yanking his arm out of Martha's grasp, Lex bolted out of his chair, strode across the living room, through the door and onto the porch, where he gripped the railing and stared out into the dark, breathing hard.

 

Fuck Eli.  Fuck Pamela Jenkins and her particulars.  They'd find some other way to protect Clark.  To figure out what his father was up to.  To anticipate Karloff's next move before he could get his hands on Clark again.  To get his goddamned life back before that psycho took it apart piece by piece.  Lex closed his eyes and leaned his head against the porch post beside him.  He could feel the rough gradations of many years of paint, the many decades and generations of loving work to preserve this little yellow house.  He wondered how old the house was, who had built it, and when the Kent family had first acquired it.  Jonathan would probably know, and if not, there were records, public records.  They'd have to be available on the net for him to see them, of course, because it wasn't as if he could walk into the Smallville town hall and ask to see the deed records for the Kent place.  It wasn't as if he could walk into Smallville at all.  Or Metropolis.  Or even into his own fucking house.  He couldn't go anywhere, see anything, do anything but this, wage this fucking, pointless war with his father -- and the thing that looked like him and beat up women and tried to fucking molest Clark, and God he was so fucking tired…

 

"Lex."

 

Lex drew in a sharp breath.  "Go back inside, Clark."

 

"Lex, I think you should—"

 

"Clark, shut up."   Lex jerked himself upright, opening his eyes, but refused to turn around.  "Just shut the fuck up.  You don't know anything about it.  You weren't there, and I don't want to hear your fucking opinion about things that are none of your business."

 

Silence.  "Feel better?"  The strain in Clark's voice grated in Lex's ear.

 

Lex slammed his hand against the railing.  "No, I don't fucking feel better!"

 

"You're saying 'fucking' an awful lot, Lex."

 

"Clark—"

 

"You hardly ever say that."

 

"Go back inside."

 

"Are you thinking about fucking somebody?"

 

Lex felt an uncontrollable jolt in his gut that he vaguely identified as laughter.  "No.  I'm thinking about shoving meteorites up somebody's ass."

 

"Ow.  That's gotta hurt."

 

"Go away, Clark."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because," Lex said unevenly, "I'm a bastard tonight."

 

"Yeah, yeah."  Clark's voice was a little wobbly, and Lex was glad he couldn't see his face.  The wobble hurt enough.  "So what else is new?" 

 

Clark's hand was on his shoulder, turning him, pulling him close, and Lex gave up, letting himself be reeled into the warmth.  He rested his forehead on Clark's shoulder and wrapped his arms around Clark's waist, felt Clark drawing his long arms around his shoulders.  They stood in silence for a few seconds.

 

"Everybody left, Clark."  Lex cursed silently as his voice caught.  "Mom died.  Pamela left.  Eli stopped coming to the house.  They were all I had, and they left."

 

Clark's arms tightened.  "I won't leave," he whispered.

 

Lex swallowed.  "I know."  Somehow this lunatic had managed to suspend Lex's capacity for disbelief.  He wasn't sure he wanted it back.

 

"Mom and Dad won't leave, either."

 

Lex closed his eyes and pressed closer, soaking in the warmth.  "I know."

 

Clark's hand moved gently across his back.  "Mom's _this_ close to giving Eli the broom."

 

"Oh, tell her to give him the broom, Clark."

 

"Lex."

 

"Tell her to put the broom right up his—"

 

"You know he cares about you."

 

"I do?"

 

Clark nuzzled him gently and said nothing.

 

Lex drew a deep breath.  "You think I should go."

 

Clark was silent for a moment.  "I think you should do what feels right, Lex."

 

"The _broom_ feels right, Clark."

 

"Lex."

 

"He's a manipulative son of a bitch, and the broom feels right."

 

"You think he's manipulating you?"

 

"Of course he is."  Lex lifted his head to meet Clark's anxious gaze.  "He already knows what Pamela is going to tell me.  There's a reason he wants me to talk to her, one that he hasn't seen fit to tell us."

 

Clark frowned.  "Do you think he's working for your father?  Do you think he'd hurt you?"

 

Lex scowled.  "No."  He was annoyed that he couldn't say yes.  Things would be so much easier if he could.

 

"Do you think he's lying about...what your dad did?  That he sent her away?"

 

Lex said nothing for a few seconds.  He fixed his gaze over Clark's left shoulder, his stomach twisting as many sudden and inexplicable departures of lovers and friends cascaded past his mind's eye. "My father never does anything without a reason," he said finally.

 

"He had a reason, Lex.  The game.  He wanted you to have nobody but him.  He wanted you all to himself." 

 

Lex swallowed and forced himself to look Clark in the eye.

 

Clark's eyes were dark. "He wanted you to _be _him."

 

"I know," Lex whispered.

 

"He's lied to you before to make that happen."

 

"He's done nothing _but_ lie to me," Lex said dully.  The image of Karloff taking Pamela by the neck assaulted his imagination.  She had thought that was him.  Everyone thought that was him.  "Everything he ever told me was a lie."  Unable to resist, Lex reached up to stroke Clark's hair back from his forehead.

 

Clark bent closer, the grimness in his face fading to a something like hope.  "Maybe you should give her a chance, Lex.  To explain, you know?"

 

"Why?"

 

"Because she's one part of your life you could get back," Clark said gently.  "Right now."

 

Lex nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

 

"If you decide to go, I could come with you.  If that would make it any easier."

 

Lex drew a ragged breath and glared at him.  "Oh, no. Forget it.  I'm not dragging you into one of Eli's little covert ops scenarios."  He congratulated himself on his cool, firm tone, although a small voice in the back of his mind had the impertinence to point out that a couple minutes ago he'd had no intention of going anywhere with Eli Cohen.

 

Clark shrugged.  "I really don't mind."

 

"You're not going."

 

Clark studied him with raised eyebrows.  "Fine.  No problem."

 

"Clark."

 

"I'll just follow you."

 

Lex resisted his impulse for half a second, then shoved Clark up against the side of the house and took Clark's startled face in his hands.  "I lied," Lex rasped.  "I'm thinking about fucking somebody."  He yanked Clark's head down and kissed him hard, felt Clark gasp into the kiss, and eased away again with gentle, reassuring touches of tongue.  "Sorry."

 

"I said I wanted everything," Clark whispered, pulling him close again.

 

"But not on your mother's front porch."  Lex forced himself to breathe.  He was coming to the belated realization that he had no control at all where anything to do with Clark Kent was concerned; something Eli had undoubtedly already noted with considerable black shame. 

 

Clark grinned a little, his face painfully red.  "Yeah.  Maybe not here.  But somewhere."

 

"Okay," Lex said in a strangled voice.

 

"Soon."

 

"Okay."  Lex kissed him, gently this time. 

 

"I...uh, think we should go in."  Clark's breathing was slightly erratic.

 

Lex sighed and let him go.  "Oh, all right," he said, with as much acid as he could muster.  "Let's go rescue the old devil before that broom winds up part of his anatomy."

 

***

 

"That was cruel, Mr. Cohen."

 

To be accused of cruelty by a kind woman is no small disgrace.  I listen to the storm door slam behind Alexander as he leaves the house, and wonder at the extent of my miscalculations tonight.  "I apologize for the unpleasantness, Mrs. Kent."

 

"_We're _not the ones you should be apologizing to." The cricket is glowering at me as if I am evil incarnate.  It is an image I have certainly cultivated among my adversaries, but to see it in the eyes of this young man does not please me.

 

"Clark," Kent says in a soft voice, and jerks his head in the direction of the porch.

 

Clark rises from his chair, his eyes never leaving me.  "If you were really his friend—"

 

"Clark," Mrs. Kent says gently.  "Go talk to Lex."

 

"—you wouldn't talk to him like that."  Clark strides past me with the set jaw and thinned lips of righteous anger, but he does not slam the door; he eases it closed gently, as if concerned that he may startle some wild thing.

 

"That was below the belt, don't you think?" Kent asks, his fingers clenched about his beer can as if he intends to throw it at me. 

 

"I intended to—"

 

"You as good as told him he was no better than that bastard thing of Lionel Luthor's."

 

"Mr. Kent—"

 

"If that's what you think, then I don't know what the hell you're doing here."

 

I do not intend to discuss my opinion of Alexander's character with a stranger, no matter how well intentioned.  "It was necessary to convince him to come with me tonight."

 

"Why?" Mrs. Kent is stern.  "You already know what Pamela Jenkins will tell him about this poor woman."  She gestured to the photograph, still lying face down on the table.  "Why drag Lex to Metropolis?"

 

I turn my mug of coffee in my hands, relishing the warmth.  There is a great deal of warmth to be found here.  "Pamela Jenkins is dying."

 

There is a silence now that allows me to hear the soft murmur of voices from the porch.

 

"She was a devoted and faithful friend to Alexander's mother, and to me.  She was a second mother to the boy for almost seven years.  If her last request is to ask Alexander's forgiveness, then she will have this opportunity, even if he should laugh in her face."

 

"Why in the name of—" Kent breaks off and stares at me as if I am a madman.  "Why didn't you just _tell _him that?"

 

My preliminary assessment of his intelligence is obviously flawed. "Because it is irrelevant to the matter at hand.  It would have done nothing to persuade him."

 

"Of course it would."  Mrs. Kent is shocked.  

 

"Alexander," I say as gently as I can, "has not been taught to forgive, Mrs. Kent."

 

"Lex is his own man," Kent says.  "Don't make the same mistake I did, Mr. Cohen."

 

"I have known—"

 

"And don't give me the 'I knew him before he was born' speech again."  Never have I met a man who would benefit so much from having his mouth stapled shut.  "I've _seen _Lex forgive.  I don't think you know him at all."

 

"I think you do not fully appreciate what Alexander endured after his mother passed," I say, provoked yet again by the man's bone-headed effrontery. "He has a right to his anger.  He was _abandoned_, Mr. Kent, abandoned by everyone."

 

"Including you?" Kent asks, and his eyes are sharp.

 

It is too much.  "You will pardon me, Mrs. Kent," I say, rising, "if I say good night."

 

Mrs. Kent rises with me, her expression troubled.  "Please don't go, Mr. Cohen.  Lex needs you, whatever he says."

 

"I have no intention of abandoning Alexander," I say, my composure strangely strained.

 

"Of course you're not abandoning him.  I meant—"

 

Kent interrupts her.  "Are you sure it's _Lex _who doesn't forgive?"

 

I turn my back on the man and cross the kitchen to retrieve my coat.  "Good night, Mrs. Kent."

 

"Mr. Cohen."  Mrs. Kent is following me to the door, and I turn back to her, unable to endure the genuine distress in her voice.  "My husband is just worried about Lex.  We both are."

 

I know she is telling the truth.  It does not matter.  "I understand.  I will be staying at the motel near the highway until I can arrange permanent lodgings and a suitable cover.  I will contact you in the morning regarding Clark's schedule."  I take her hand, kiss it and push through the storm door as quickly as I can, nearly knocking Alexander over in the process.

 

"Where the hell are you going?" he demands.

 

I frown, noting his disheveled clothing and flushed face.  I look at Clark, observe that he is the color of fresh beets, and begin to draw conclusions I should have drawn long ago.  "To inventory the roaches in my motel room," I say, pushing past him.  "I will speak with you tomorrow, Alexander."

 

"I thought we were going to see Pamela."

 

I halt at the bottom of the porch steps and turn to stare up at him.  Alexander stands there with his arms crossed across his chest and the defiant expression that has never failed to remind me that he is Joseph, all over again.  The cricket stands behind him with his _La Joconde _smile, and I know this is his doing.  "You are willing to speak to her?"

 

Alexander shrugs, his face a mask.  "You say she has information for me."  He glances over his shoulder as Mr. and Mrs. Kent emerge from the house to stand on either side of their son.  "We can be back by morning."

 

Kent glances at his watch.  "It's almost seven.  Visiting hours will be long over by the time you get there."

 

"I have an arrangement with the duty nurse on Ms. Jenkins' floor," I say. 

 

"I'm going with Lex," Clark says to his father, and Kent scowls.  "It'll be okay, Dad."  He turns away from me to murmur.  "He can't hurt me."

 

The cricket either thinks me deaf or is giving me fair warning; I tend to think it is the latter.  "Come, then," I say, turning toward the car.  "I will have them back by breakfast, Mrs. Kent."

 

"Yes, you will," Mrs. Kent says, and I pause in opening the car door long enough to note that she is warning me also.  "Jackets, boys."

 

Clark and Alexander exchange amused expressions; Clark disappears into the house.

 

"Nice night for a drive," Kent observes in a bland tone.

 

"Indeed."  I refrain from observing that it is a night like any other, that is to say _dark_, and that driving in the barbarian wilderness that is rural Kansas is far removed from any definition of _nice_ with which I am acquainted.

 

"You two will have a good chance to catch up," Kent continues, catching Alexander's gaze and holding it.  "Talk." 

 

His mouth should be sutured shut. 

 

I am amazed to see Alexander smile back at the man with affection.  "Sure.  Talking is what Eli does best," he says lightly.

 

Clark returns, carrying the jackets, and Mrs. Kent kisses her son and whispers something in his ear.  He nods and follows Alexander down the steps.

 

"Have a nice trip," Kent tells me, and my teeth hurt from the grinding.

 

The boys climb into the back seat and shut the door, and I sit behind the wheel, watching them in the rearview mirror as they settle in.  "I am the chauffeur, now?" 

 

"It's your party," Alexander says with an impertinent expression, resting his feet on the top of the front passenger seat. 

 

I slam my door shut and start the engine, nodding to Mrs. Kent.  Kent puts an arm around his wife.  "Bring them back in one piece, Mr. Cohen," he says in a voice that adds _or else_, and I nod and drive away. 

 

"You okay?"  Clark's voice is very soft, little more than a whisper, and I look in the mirror again.

 

Alexander 's head his resting on the back of the seat; he turns it enough to give the cricket an odd, small smile.  "Fine."  I notice for the first time the circles under his eyes.

 

Clark looks unconvinced.  "You got about a half-hour's sleep last night."

 

"Personal best."

 

The cricket looks at him for a moment, eyebrows raised, and Alexander's smile becomes a grin.  I do not know what silent message passes between the two, but Alexander snorts, removes his feet from the front seat to swing his legs about, and lies down with his head in the boy's lap.

 

So.  It is true.  Alexander has found his Hephaestion.

 

There is much to be thankful for in this.  And a great deal to be feared.  The fortunes of war rarely respect the attachments of lovers.  The great Alexander lost his Hephaestion, and died of the loss, despite the scoffs of modern historians.  Lionel Luthor, too, laughed at the idea more than once, in the old days.  _"Victorian melodrama, masquerading as history," _he'd said.  _"No conqueror dies of a broken heart; he achieves victory by breaking the hearts of smaller men."  _ He called me a sentimental fool, as I recall, and asked me if I were sure I was not in the wrong line of work.  Lillian told him he had no business treading upon the romance of legend, and sent him about his business with a few choice words; but had I been permitted to speak my mind, Lionel Luthor would have heard me say that the soulless and cowardly are ill-equipped to comprehend the hearts of true soldiers.

 

I blink, realizing how far I have driven without being aware of my surroundings; it is a carelessness I never allow myself.  I cannot imagine what has possessed me tonight.  I look in the mirror, only to find the cricket staring back at me.  "I am so fascinating?"

 

Clark makes a face at me.  "Are you still in a bad mood?" He keeps his voice very soft, and I realize that Alexander must be asleep.

 

"I am never in a bad mood.  On the contrary, I have received compliments on the sweetness of my disposition."

 

Clark grimaces and holds a finger to his lips, gesturing toward his lap.

 

"Alexander has been having trouble sleeping?" I ask, lowering my voice, and hoping I am not being indiscreet.

 

Clark looks down at Alexander, and I wish I could see his face.  "Nightmares," he says.  "Lots of them.  About the basement at the mansion.  And other stuff."

 

The basement.  I tell myself for the thousandth time that the promise to Lillian cannot be broken.  "What happened in the basement?"

 

Clark looks up at me; he is surprised.  "He didn't tell you about it?"

 

"No."

 

"You guys don't talk much, do you?"

 

I suppress my annoyance.  "We speak every day."

 

"No.  I mean _talk_."

 

I ignore his nonsense.  "Tell me what happened to him."

 

Clark hesitates.  "He said that his father and Karloff wanted to know things, and he wouldn't tell them.  That Karloff hurt him."

 

"How?"

 

"When I found him, he had bruises all over and burns on his chest.  I know there's more, but he won't tell me.  He's got a thing about me knowing ugly stuff."

 

It struck Alexander.  It burned him.  Had it laid a finger on the boy this would have been enough; no promise protects _its_ life.  I cannot comprehend Alexander's silence about this.  Surely he must realize now that no amount of pressure – financial or otherwise – will induce the creature to relinquish the name of Lex Luthor, or force his father to denounce it for the imposter that it is.  And if Alexander imagines that his father is man enough to face down his demon and kill it, then he gives the dog credit for more manhood than I have ever seen him display.  There is only one alternative.

 

"Eli, Karloff…_liked _hurting him.  He…"

 

"You need not explain," I say, and my knuckles are white on the steering wheel.  "The matter will be dealt with."

 

"How?" he whispers; he knows the answer to his question.

 

"Leave the details to me."

 

"You can't kill him."

 

I snort.  "Indeed.  It will be so very relieved to hear this when I cut its throat."

 

"You can't kill him.  It would be murder."  The cricket's chirp is low and fierce.

 

"It is not a human being."

 

Silence.  "You think that's a good enough reason to kill somebody?"

 

The boy asks bizarre questions.  "When an animal is mad, it is put down."

 

"He's not an animal.  He's just...different.  Messed up.  It's not his fault he's the way he is."

 

"And you will say this to Rachel Dunleavy's parents?"

 

Silence.  "You think Karloff killed her?"

 

"I do."

 

"Why?  It could have been anyone."

 

"Her body was found a block from LuthorCorp Plaza."

 

"Eli—"

 

"She had appointments with both the creature and Lionel Luthor within hours of her death."

 

"Those are coincidences."

 

"They are facts; they are the results of enemy action.  Coincidence is the favored explanation of idiots."

 

"How do you know it wasn't Mr. Luthor, then?"

 

"I have seen Lionel Luthor kill."

 

Silence again.  "You have?"

 

"It is efficient.  It is passionless.  Nothing about Rachel Dunleavy's remains suggests Lionel Luthor to me."

 

"But—"

 

"Nor does the location of the body.  The man is many things; stupid is not one of them."

 

"You think Karloff dumped the body there to frame Mr. Luthor."

 

"It is possible.  It is also possible that it panicked, and did not realize where it was.  It is insane."

 

"Please," Clark says.  His voice shakes.  "Stop calling him 'it'."

 

I glance into the mirror, startled, but his head is lowered.  "This is the creature who tortured Alexander and attempted to abduct you."

 

"I know."

 

"It is not innocent."

 

"I know.  I don't care.  He's not an 'it'.  He's not a thing."

 

So.  This is the source of Alexander's reluctance.  I should have known.  "Some years ago, I and my friend Joseph caught a man breaking into Joseph's house.  He had been sent to abduct Joseph's young daughter for ransom.  I told Joseph that the man must be killed.  The dog pleaded for its life.  It swore that it had been coerced.  Joseph took pity on the creature and allowed the police to deal with the matter."  I note that my speed is now ninety-five miles per hour, and reduce it slightly.  "Nine months later, the dog returned.  It wounded me, killed Joseph, and took his daughter to his employers."

 

Clark says nothing for a few moments.  "I'm sorry about Joseph."

 

"It is in the past," I lie.

 

"Did his daughter get home okay?"

 

"She did."

 

"What happened to the guys who kidnapped her?"

 

"I do not make a mistake twice."

 

"There has to be another way," the cricket whispers.

 

"And you will risk Alexander's life and your own to find it?"

 

"Eli—"

 

"That is unacceptable."

 

"It's...a line."  His voice is shaking again.  "If we cross it, we'll stop being who we are.  And Mr. Luthor wins."  Joseph used to say such things.  Joseph, who bled to death in my arms.  "Lex isn't going to turn into his dad.  We're not going to let that happen."  He is adamant, passionate; his dark eyes glow, and I almost believe that he can bend the fates to his will.

 

"On this we agree," I say.  I sound shaken.  This boy has power that transcends speed or strength.  "I alone am accountable for my actions.  Alexander—"

 

"Will know that you did it for him.  He'll think it's his fault.  You can't do that to him, Eli.  Especially not now, when he's just about to get a piece of his life back."

 

I stare into the mirror, then hastily fix my gaze on the road.  "A piece of his life?"

 

"Pamela.  Someone who cares about him.  You can't—"

 

"Cricket."  Tonight I am cursed.  Tonight I am a cretin.  "He cannot have Pamela back."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Pamela has cancer.  She is dying."

 

Silence.

 

"Exactly when did you plan to tell me this, Eli?"  Alexander's voice cuts the silence; it is sharp and cold. 

 

"God," Clark whispers.  "Lex."

 

Tonight I should bury in an unmarked hole in a desert.  "I did not think it would make a difference.  You were—"

 

"A Luthor?"

 

"Angry."

 

"You have no idea."  Like ice.  His mother was like ice, too, when she was angry.  Ice that burned.  "I may safely conclude, then, that you've lied to me, and that Pamela has no information for me regarding Rachel Dunleavy's murder."

 

"You may not," I snap.  "I have never lied to you, Alexander."

 

"No, of course not.   I apologize for my imprecise language.  You've just withheld certain inconvenient truths."  Alexander sits up to stare into the rearview mirror; the cricket watches him with a drawn face.  "What else haven't you told me?"

 

"If you do not wish to see Pamela, then I will take you—"

 

"I do wish to see Pamela, and that isn't an answer."

 

"My answer," I say, and _I_ am angry now, "is that to tell you everything that I know and that you do not would take me ten lifetimes to tell and you fifty lifetimes to understand."

 

Silence.

 

"Pull over," Alexander says.

 

"We are in the middle of a God-forsaken wilderness!"

 

"I said pull over!" he shouts, slamming his fist on the back of my seat.  I drive onto the shoulder of the highway and stop, seeing, out of the corner of my eye, Clark's hand settle over Alexander's fist.  "Which hospital is Pamela in?  What room?"

 

I turn around to face him, startled.  "Why?"

 

"I've had enough of your games tonight," Alexander rasps, and Clark's hand tightens around his.

 

"Lex.  Easy," the cricket says gently, but there is nothing easy in Alexander's eyes, nothing but ten years of rage.

 

"Room 304 at Sisters of Mercy," I say, and see him flinch.  "It is—"

 

"I know exactly where it is."  Alexander shoves the car door open and climbs out into the cold spring night.  "I watched my mother die there.  You remember my mother, right, Eli?"

 

He has gone too far.  I bolt out of the car and plant myself in his path.  "I need no one to remind me of Lillian Edouard.  Of her, of her father, of my debt and duty to both.  You have no right—"

 

"Clark, we're going to the hospital."  Alexander turns to Clark, who has emerged from the car and is standing with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking as if he wants to be ten miles away. 

 

I snort, attempting to master myself.  "You will fly there?"

 

The cricket is frowning now.  "Lex," he says gently.  "Cool off."

 

"Fine.  I'll walk."  Alexander brushes past me and stalks down the shoulder of the road. 

 

He is a madman.  He is a mule.  Better I should bludgeon myself with rocks than attempt to reason with this impossible boy.  "We are miles from Metropolis!  Get back in the car."  Ah, the set of those shoulders.  He will die, he will see himself splattered all over the road before he will allow me to drive him there.  The Edouard obstinacy runs true, and I have provoked it.

 

The cricket sighs and gives me a look that is half wry understanding and half apology.  "We'll meet you there, Eli."

 

Before I can answer, he is no longer there. He is picking up Alexander, and then he is a white blur, and then he cannot be seen.  I am alone in the dark.

 

By all that is holy, never did I imagine that he could move so.  That any living being could move so.  He will run to Metropolis.  He will be in Metropolis before I have scraped my lolling tongue from the pavement. 

 

I climb back into the car and set off again; this time I ignore the speedometer.  They will be in Metropolis alone, these two whom I have promised to bring back in one piece.  I should have told Alexander everything.  Or nothing.  Instead, I tell him and the cricket only enough to drive them into harm's way.  I am a thousand kinds of fool, but never did I expect Alexander to react this way.

 

Something essential in the boy is profoundly altered.  Alexander said he is tired of my games.  There was a time not so long ago when he preferred them.  But he has come to respect different ways, grown accustomed to braver and more honest hearts.  Kent is right.  I do not know Alexander as I once did. 

 

And I do not forgive.

 

***

 

Lex pressed his face to Clark's cheek, eyes pinched shut against the glow, the oddly still air, the disorienting sensations that inevitably accompanied a ride in Clark's glass Porsche, and Pamela.  Pamela lost, then found, then lost again.  It occurred to him that he'd had better nights.

 

"Lex."

 

Damn the old bastard to hell.  What was he up to?  Why withhold Pamela's information and conceal her illness?  Why force him to come to Metropolis?  If Lex were the suspicious type, which of course he wasn't, he might think the old devil was working with his father to set him up.  A trap.

 

"Lex, we're here."

 

A trap, with Pamela as bait.  Pamela, who was dying.

 

Clark's warm mouth pressed against his temple.  "Lex."  Clark released Lex's legs, forcing him to stand.  "Are you okay?"

 

Lex drew back enough to look at him, and was annoyed when he had to blink to clear his vision.  They were standing in a dimly-lit alley; he could hear the subdued hum of city traffic.  "Fine.  Where are we?"

 

"Around the corner from the hospital.  Lex—"

 

"Let's go, then."  Lex turned toward the street, but Clark gently pulled him back.

 

"Give yourself a second," Clark murmured. 

 

Lex avoided the steady green gaze.  "I don't want a second."

 

"Take one anyway."

 

Lex stood still, trying to ignore the tempting warmth of Clark's body, the comfort of Clark's hands as they rested on his shoulders.  "You're a real pain in the ass tonight, Clark."

 

"Yeah." Clark bent close.  "I know."  He hesitated.  "I'm sorry.  About Pamela."

 

Lex managed a shrug.

 

"I shouldn't have gotten your hopes up like that," Clark whispered.  "I wasn't thinking."

 

"It's not your fault."  Lex drew a shaky breath.  "I hate that old man."

 

"No, you don't."

 

"Damn it, Clark—"

 

"You're mad at him."

 

"He's done nothing but lie to me."

 

"Yeah," Clark said mildly.  "Nothing but lie to you and save your life."

 

Lex grimaced.  "A fairly effective combination if your goal is to manipulate."

 

Clark moved one hand to slide up Lex's shoulder and caress his neck.  "I lied to you, too, Lex.  Did you hate me?"

 

Lex shot him an impatient look.   "It's not the same."




 

"Why not?"

 

"Because you weren't playing a game.  You weren't using me.  You lied to protect yourself, because you were afraid, and you had every reason to be."

 

"Maybe Eli is afraid, too."

 

Lex snorted at the absurdity of the notion.  "That old bastard has never been afraid of anything in his life."

 

"Everybody's afraid of something," Clark said soberly.

 

"Is my second over yet?"

 

"No."

 

"They have long seconds where you come from, Clark."

 

"I'm just saying—"

 

"I know what you're saying.  And I'm saying we don't have time for this right now."  Lex swung away and strode down the alley toward the street.  "Are you coming?"

 

Clark sighed in obvious exasperation and followed him, but as Lex rounded the corner, he came to such an abrupt halt that Clark ran into him.  "Lex?  What?"

 

Lex stood watching dumbly as Lionel Luthor climbed out of his midnight blue Mercedes and strode through the brightly lit front doors of Sisters of Mercy Hospital.  Stopped just inside the doors to speak, with considerable agitation, to the doctor who met him there.  Disappeared into the waiting room with the doctor on his heels.  Lex found himself being yanked back into the alley and up against the dirty brick wall before he could either see anything else or make any attempt at lucid thought.

 

"Holy shit, Lex," Clark breathed in his ear, eyes wide.  "Your father."

 

Lex struggled for coherent speech.  "Did you just say 'shit,' Clark?"

 

"It's your _father._"

 

"I don't suppose you'd be interested in the direct correlation I've noted between your infrequent use of profanity and how fucking screwed we are at any given moment?"

"What's he doing here?"

"I didn't think so."

Clark's face went grim. "I'm taking you home."

"The hell you are." Lex forced himself to breathe, forced his mind to start working again.

"Lex, somebody knew you were coming."

Lex blew out a breath. "I'm going inside."

Clark actually laughed. "That is so not happening."

"Don't be absurd," Lex snapped. "If my father's been informed about my whereabouts, then I have to know _now._ I'm going to have a word with Pamela."

"Oh, good plan, mastermind. Your father's probably sitting in Pamela's room waiting for you to show up."

"A trap, Clark? I'm shocked that you would consider such a thing." Lex pulled himself together for a quick look around the corner, then shook his head, frowning. Admittedly he didn't have Eli's expertise, but this seemed an odd setup for an abduction. "If this is a trap, it's a pathetic excuse for one."

"Lex, your father—"

"Is slipping. The royal chariot parked in plain sight? And the great Lionel Luthor himself on public display? I mean, entertainment value notwithstanding, his presence jeopardizes the entire operation. I won't even mention the complete absence of any security personnel or—"

"Lex," Clark sighed, "do we really have to _critique_ the trap?"

Lex raised an eyebrow. "What else would one do with a trap, Jiminy?"

Clark glared. "If one wasn't _stupid_, one would _avoid_ it, mastermind."

"Exactly. Come on, let's find another way in." Lex turned away from the main street and strode down the alley.

Clark caught up with him. "I said avoid it!"

"Pamela may be in trouble." Lex congratulated himself on the maneuver; Clark could never resist a damsel in distress.

Clark's eyes narrowed. "You don't believe that. You think she's working for your father."

Lex wasn't sure what he thought. He'd experienced the sensation frequently in the past few months; he blamed the chicken soup. "It's a cardinal error to theorize without facts, Clark."

 

"So we don't know if Pamela's in trouble or not."

 

"First case in point."

 

"And if she's not, we don't know what your father is planning."

 

"Second case in point.  There's the ambulance entrance."  Lex turned right onto the narrow backstreet and headed toward the parked ambulances he could see sitting in the harsh yellow light of the emergency entrance.

 

Clark caught his arm and pulled him behind the shelter of the first available dumpster, his face set and his voice low.  "Okay.  If you really want to do this—"

 

"I really _need _to do this."

 

"Then you're going to let me go take a look first."

 

Shit.  "Senior part—"

 

"Bullets don't bounce off the senior partner," Clark said sharply, leaning close.  "So shut up."

 

"Wait," Lex breathed in sudden panic, holding onto him.  "I haven't…thought this through, Clark."

 

"Oh, sure.  Now that it's me going in you're all 'I haven't thought this through.'" Clark had the effrontery to look amused.  "You are such a dumbass.  I'll be fine.  I'll take a look around and be back in sixty seconds."

 

Partners.  He had told Clark they were partners, and Clark was holding him to his word.  Lex decided that he really hated being held to his word.  "Thirty," he said around a dry throat.

 

"Forty-five." 

 

"If you're not back in forty-five seconds I'm coming in after you."

 

Clark kissed him, smiling, and then he was gone, the scattered trash on the dark street whipping cartwheels in his wake.

 

Lex drew a breath and started to count.

 

***

 

I dislike Metropolis.  It is an ugly, grim place that draws the needy, the greedy and the power-mad.  Lillian disliked it as well, but resigned herself early in her marriage to the fact that her husband fancied himself a prince of the city.  It is a city worthy of Lionel Luthor.  It is a city that served to isolate Alexander from anyone capable of truly befriending him.  Here he was surrounded by his father's creatures, fawning sycophants who sought to use him, and the similarly abandoned and wounded children of his station, who drew him into their frenzied death waltzes.  I cannot count the times I was tempted to take the boy and run from this place. 

 

But Lillian had been adamant.  She had been determined that Alexander inherit what was rightfully his, and fulfill his destiny.  I was and remain bound by her wishes; but I cannot help but wonder if she would have chosen otherwise, had she seen the price Alexander would pay for his fortune.

 

The telephone interrupts my thoughts, and once again I am startled by how far I have driven without being aware of my surroundings.  I am on the outskirts of Metropolis.  "Yes?"

 

_"Your boy and his friend are at Sisters of Mercy hospital."_

 

I grimace; she sounds annoyed.  "I am well aware of this, Miss Graves.  May one ask where _you _are?"

 

_"I'm exactly where Lex told me to be – up Lionel Luthor's ass."_  Graves has many admirable qualities; refinement of speech is not one of them._ "He's had me following him all over the city today.  Lionel arrived at the hospital five minutes ago."_

 

I remind myself that profanity is a low and unattractive habit.  "What is he doing there?"

 

_"I don't know yet.  Whatever it is, he certainly isn't bothering with a low profile."_

 

"Find out.  Where is Alexander now?"

 

_"He and farmboy are hanging around the back entrance.  Considering they didn't take off when they spotted Lionel, I think we can safely assume they're going to do something stupid."_

 

I run a red light.  "Stop them."

 

_"Look, Eli, babysitting wasn't part of the deal.  I'm going to have too much to explain to Lex as it is."_

 

"You will see that no harm comes to Alexander, or you will explain to _me_.  Those who have done so and still have the use of their tongues do not recommend the experience, Miss Graves.  See to it."

 

I hang up, and run another red light, and curse the favored explanation of idiots.

 

***

 

Lex counted to forty-five, but Clark didn't come back.  Clenching his teeth, he tried to count another fifteen, gave up after seven and launched himself from his hiding place behind the dumpster, only to find himself in Clark's arms.

 

"Whoa," Clark said gently.  "Easy."

 

Lex curled his fingers into the white lab coat Clark was wearing, stared at the stethoscope hanging around Clark's neck, and did his best to get his breathing under control.  "Are we playing doctor, Clark?"

 

Clark reddened slightly.  "I thought it might help to...you know. Blend in."

 

Lex fought the familiar urge to kiss him.  "What's going on in there?"

 

Clark drew him across the street and toward the ambulance entrance, lowering his voice.  "A lot of yelling.  Your dad is trying to get someone released, and the doctors don't want to do it."

 

"Pamela?"

 

Clark shook his head, frowning.  "No.  It's someone on another floor.  Your dad and a whole bunch of doctors were in there, so I didn't go in."

 

Lex yanked on the stethoscope, glaring.  Clark and his father in the same room was not an option.  "Good choice.  Did you find Pamela?"

 

"Yeah.  She's asleep in her room.  Lex, I don't think your dad even knows she's there." 

 

"I don't believe in coincidences, Clark."  Lex watched one of the two ambulances in the drive pull slowly away, wondering if his father believed in coincidences.  He seriously doubted it.

 

Clark surprised him with a smile.  "So when I just happened to be standing on the bridge that day you drove by—"

 

"That," Lex said firmly, knowing it, "was destiny."

 

"Maybe this is destiny, too."  Clark's smile deepened with highly inappropriate mischief.  "Maybe the sausages we had for breakfast were destiny."

 

Lex cast a brief glance skyward.

 

"Maybe the socks you put on today were destiny."

 

Lex snorted.  "I think it fairly safe to assume that destiny abhors your father's pink socks as much as I do."

 

"Then maybe it's destiny that you can't sort laundry."

 

"Must my crimes against your father's underwear haunt me for all time?"

 

"Maybe everything is destiny with us, Lex."

 

"Mocking destiny is extremely ill-advised, Clark." 

 

Clark shook his head, still grinning. "I think destiny has a better sense of humor than you give it credit for."

 

"I can't imagine what evidence you've found in this situation to support that theory."

 

Clark pulled him up against the wall as they crept closer to the entrance.  "We're doing covert ops in a doctor costume and pink socks," he whispered in Lex's ear.

 

Lex managed not to grin, not to kiss him again; wondered how long he'd keep falling in love, and if Clark would consider wearing the lab coat in bed.  "Point taken," he whispered back.  "Let's go."

 

Clark touched his forehead to Lex's.  "Pamela's room?" he breathed, taking Lex's hand.

 

"Yes."

 

"You sure?"

 

Lex nodded, not sure of anything but the firm, warm clasp of Clark's hand around his.  He could see one ambulance still waiting in the drive, its two-man crew perched on the rear bumper facing the entrance, obviously waiting for someone.  Mayfair...a private ambulance company.  This had to be the ambulance Lionel had hired to transport his mystery patient.  The entrance was well-lit and directly in the crew's line of sight.  "I don't suppose you woke up with an invisibility ray this morning," Lex whispered. 

 

Clark rolled his eyes, released Lex's hand and put a finger to his lips, then blurred away in the direction of the ambulance's driver-side door.  The door swung open, and almost immediately the ambulance started to roll down the gentle incline of the drive toward the street. 

 

The two men staggered and nearly fell as their support rolled away.  Shouting startled curses, they stumbled as they chased the runaway vehicle into the street, but Clark had Lex's hand again and was pulling him up the gurney ramp and through the automatic doors before he could see anything else.  The corridor inside was empty, with the exception of one woman sitting at the nurses' station several yards away, and Clark yanked him through a door to his left and into a stairwell before she could so much as look up.  Pushing the door shut behind them, Lex leaned against it to study Clark, impressed in spite of his better judgment.  "Nice moves, Jiminy."

 

"See?"  Clark crossed his arms over his chest, eyebrows raised and looking entirely too pleased with himself.  "And all without an invisibility ray."

 

***

 

"Hey!  You can't park there."

 

A cockroach in a security guard's uniform stands between me and the hospital entrance, looking at me as if I should die of fright for him.  I step to the right, attempting to walk around him, but he blocks my path again.

 

"I said you can't park there," he persists, enunciating each word carefully, as if I am a moron, or senile, or both, and not the man about to amputate his genitalia.  "Do you want to get towed?  Because I'll get you towed.  I'm getting that guy towed right now."  He points to the Mercedes parked directly in front of the hospital entrance.

 

I smile, imagining this insect's expression when he finds out that he has ordered Mr. Lionel Luthor's car to be towed, and the subsequent and immediate state of unemployment he will undoubtedly enjoy.  "You are an imbecile," I tell him. "Go away." With one hand I knock him out of my way and into the side of the building.

 

"You can't do that!" he whines at my back as I walk through the sliding glass doors and into the lobby.  "I'm calling the cops!"

 

Oh, by all means, call the police; an encounter with Metropolis' most cretinous and corrupt will be the crowning jewel of this night I will bury in the desert. There is no sign of Luthor in the vicinity of the admissions desk.  I walk quickly toward the elevators, but the soft sound of someone clearing their throat captures my attention.  I catch sight of Graves disappearing through the stairwell door, and follow her.  She is waiting for me inside.  "Well?" 

 

"Your boy moves too fast."  Graves surveys me with her usual coolness; I am not amused.

 

"One might just as easily observe that you move too slowly, Miss Graves.  Where is he?" 

 

"In room 304.  Elizabeth Pryor is the patient's name.  Ring a bell?"

 

Pamela Jenkins' alias of choice.  I ignore the question.  "Where is Luthor?"

 

"On the seventh floor, trying to persuade the doctors to release the patient in the private suite."

 

This is unexpected.  "Who is this patient?"

 

Graves shrugs.  "A kid named Lucas Dunleavy.  Got his head beat in by some thugs he'd screwed over, apparently, and he's been in a coma for almost six months.  I don't suppose that name rings a bell, either."

 

"Lucas _Dunleavy_."  I am an idiot.  "Go tell Alexander that he is under no circumstances to leave Miss Pryor's room until I have persuaded his father to leave. And make certain no one else disturbs them."  I start for the stairs, but she seizes my arm with an urgent expression.

 

"Damn it, Eli, this isn't what I agreed to.  I can't maintain my cover if—"

 

"We have no time for this."

 

"This guy's not stupid, Eli.  If I start making him suspicious this soon, it's over.  And I do mean over, as in Mercy Graves is found floating face-down somewhere.  Do you get it?"

 

I contain my impatience with difficulty.  "I have confidence in your resourcefulness, Miss Graves.  I have no doubt that you will find a way to earn the generous salary I am paying you."

 

Her face hardens.  "Money won't bring me back from the dead, old man."

 

"You understood the terms of our arrangement.  I hold you to them."

 

"Playing bodyguard to Alexander and his friend at the same time I'm trying to gain Lex's trust was _not _the arrangement.  I owe you, Eli, but don't push me.  I'm not dying for you, your boy, or anybody else."

 

All allies are of fleeting value, and inevitably become an inconvenience and liability in time, but I had expected a much longer period of usefulness from Graves.  "Indeed you do owe me," I say, not troubling to conceal my anger.  "One might think enough to exceed the terms—"

 

"Lex is expecting a phone call from me," Graves cuts in grimly, moving away from me.  "Telling me where his father is and what he's up to."

 

"You will not make that call," I say, calculating the distance between us.  "If he should come here, or send one of his operatives—"

 

"Why the hell would he do that?  He didn't react that way all the other times I reported his father's location today."

 

"He did not react because you had not told him what he needed to know."

 

"Which is?"

 

"The location of the boy who could challenge his right to inherit the Luthor fortune. Lucas Dunleavy is Lionel Luthor's son."

 

Graves' eyes widen, then narrow.  "You can't know that."

 

"I do know it.  I was there when Luthor took the child and institutionalized the mother.  Think, Miss Graves.  It explains Rachel Dunleavy's presence in Metropolis, and her elimination.  It explains Luthor's attempt to move Lucas to an unspecified location.  He knows that his creature will attempt to kill his son."

 

Graves frowns.  "Even if you're right, it's not like he's going send anybody tonight.  He'll take his time, he'll track the kid."

 

"He has no time to take," I say harshly.  "He knows Lionel Luthor will act immediately."

 

"If you and Lionel move fast enough, you'll both have your boys out of here before anybody shows up."

 

"The risk is unacceptable."

 

"The risk to my cover is unacceptable if I don't.  I'm making the call, Eli."

 

A gunshot in this stairwell would be heard all over the hospital, and I have no knife.  I move to strike her, but she has been trained well – she draws her weapon and aims at my chest, backing toward the door.  "Don't.  I don't want to, but I will."

 

"If any harm comes to Alexander through your actions," I say, and my voice is that of a stranger, "I will hunt you down and cut your throat."

 

"I don't want to harm your precious Alexander," Graves snaps.  "I just want to stay alive long enough to do the job you gave me, okay?  What the hell is the matter with you tonight?  You're not thinking, Eli.  Get your priorities straight."

 

The gall of this child, to be lecturing me about priorities.  "My priorities are exactly what they have always been."

 

"Then get your ass up to 304 and get those kids out of there before whatever is going to go down goes down.  Because I am making the call.  You know I'm right, Eli.  Or you will when you come down from whatever it is you've been sniffing."

 

Her logic is sound.  It is imperative that Alexander have eyes and ears inside the creature's operation, and Graves is right: betraying him in a matter so easily verified will endanger both Graves and her assignment.  And yet my instincts tell me that even the remotest possibility that the creature may learn of Alexander's presence here must be avoided at all cost.  I clutch the banister, torn.  "Give me ten minutes," I say finally.

 

"Five," Graves said, pulling open the door to the lobby, her aim never wavering.  "Move, Eli."

 

I turn from her and start vaulting up the steps as fast as my legs will carry me.

 

***

 

"Should I wait outside?" Clark whispered in his ear, laying the purloined lab coat and stethoscope on a chair by the door.

 

Lex seized Clark's wrist, unable to answer, unable to tear his gaze from the face on the pillow.  She hadn't changed much.  Except that she was dying.  You could always tell.  The skin had that waxy, translucent look, like they were fading away from the outside in.  His mother had faded away.  It had taken a long time.

 

Clark's arm went around his shoulders.  "Lex?"

 

Lex hadn't believed his father when he'd said his mother was gone.  He'd run away over and over again in the weeks after the funeral, run here to look for her, certain that if he were in the right room at the right time he would find her.  He never did.  He'd only found strangers, fading away.  He'd become an expert in dying in those few weeks.

 

Pamela's eyes fluttered open and scanned the darkened room.  "Who's there?"

 

Lex could barely hear her.  "It's me," he said, which he knew was stupid; Pamela couldn't possibly know his voice.  He forced himself to let go of Clark and walk toward the bed, but stopped when Pamela gasped and propped herself up on her elbows.  Lex understood.  "No.  Pamela, it's me.  Eli sent me."

 

"Alexander."  She eased herself back on her pillows.  Lex could see the bruises on her arms now, the bruises on her face and neck.  "You're the last person I expected to see."

 

Lex blinked in surprise.  "Didn't Eli tell you he'd bring me?"

 

"He wasn't sure he could persuade you to come."

 

Eli, unsure of his ability to manipulate?  "He wasn't?"

 

"I wasn't sure, either."

 

"Neither was I."  Lex could see her protruding collarbones.  The bones always showed through.  "Eli told me you had information for me about my father and Rachel Dunleavy."

 

Pamela laughed, but the sound wasn't happy.  "Is that why you came?"

 

Lex considered saying "yes," but knew it was a lie.  "No.  Why did you come back here, Pamela?"

 

"Because you mean a great deal to me," Pamela whispered.  "And I wanted to ask for your forgiveness."

 

"It's a hell of a lot to ask," Lex said, vaguely aware of the harshness of his tone.

 

"I know.  I can only imagine what I've put you through."

 

"I don't think you can."  Lex paused, examining her face.  "Did you know that my father is here?"

 

Pamela's eyes widened; she tried to sit up.  "Here?  In the hospital?"  Her face twisted in pain, and Lex found himself bolting forward on instinct, adjusting the bed to support her.  Pavlovian response.  He'd done the same for his mother.  Pamela grabbed his arm.  "What are you doing here?  What in God's name is Eli thinking?"

 

"He doesn't know," Lex said, startled by the genuine fear in her face.

 

"How could he not...  Leave.  Leave right now, Alexander."

 

"My father doesn't know you're here, does he?"

 

"Eli said he didn't, that Lionel had stopped tracking me years ago.  I've been as discreet as possible.  But if he's here—"

 

"He's visiting someone on the seventh floor.  If he doesn't know you're here, then we've got nothing to worry about."

 

Pamela glared at him with a shadow of the temper he remembered.  "You can't believe this is just a coincidence."

 

Lex allowed himself a bitter smile.  "Why not?  'Life's all coincidence.'"

 

"'Turn death and happenstance flakes off him like fleas from a killed ox.'"  Pamela was still glaring.  "You read Bradbury."

 

"I read everything."

 

"Including Dickens?"

 

"What's your point?"

 

"I don't think you believe in coincidence.  You must have suspected that I was working with Lionel when you realized he was here."

 

"Of course."

 

"Or at the very least, that I was bait in a trap."

 

"Possibly."

 

"And you came anyway."

 

"I laugh in the face of danger."

 

Pamela studied his face with a somber expression.  "Alexander.  Why did you come here?" 

 

Lex groped for a flippant answer, came up empty, and heard the truth coming out of his mouth.  "I came because…you're part of my life." 

 

God, the gratitude in her face.  Lex swallowed against it.

 

"I always wanted to be," Pamela whispered. "I wanted so much to help you grow up."

 

"I wish to God you had," Lex said thickly. "I'd be a better man."

 

"The fact that you're here speaks volumes about the kind of man you are."  Pamela curled her thin fingers around his hand.  "I'm not working with your father, Alexander."

 

"I know," Lex whispered, and he did.

 

"But I might be bait."

 

"If you are, he's taking his time springing the trap."

 

"Don't underestimate him."

 

"I never do."

 

"It looks like I put both of us through hell for nothing."

 

"You tried to protect me."  Lex realized with considerable astonishment that he believed it.

 

"I did a lousy job."  Pamela folded her other hand around Lex's.  "But maybe I can help now."

 

"Don't worry about that.  Do you have everything you need?"

 

Pamela surprised him with a smile.  "I do now. Your mother would be proud of you, Alexander."

 

Lex drew an unsteady breath.  "You should have come to me sooner."  Years.  Years wasted.  "I could have helped.  I could have gotten you specialists, treatment—"

 

"There was nothing you could have done.  By the time I faced the fact that it was serious, it was too late."  Pamela squeezed his hand.  He could feel the bones.  "And I was too cowardly to face you.  I expected...what I deserved, I suppose.  What I got from _him_.  Your father's monster."

 

Lex flinched.  "You didn't deserve that," he whispered.  "I'm...I'm sorry—"

 

"That wasn't you!"  Clark's exasperated voice snapped through the darkness, and Pamela gasped, turning toward him.

 

"It's all right, Pamela," Lex said wryly, recovering his balance at the sound of Clark's voice.  "My moral compass has a loud chirp.  Come here and be introduced, Jiminy."

 

Clark emerged from the shadows by the door with a thoroughly embarrassed expression.  "Sorry.  I didn't mean to barge in, I just—"

 

"Couldn't resist the opportunity to bolster my flagging sense of self?  Of course not.  You've acquired some disgusting habits in the last few months."  Lex extended a hand, doing his level best to keep a smile off his face.

 

Clark flushed and shot him an inquiring look, and Lex glared at him, shoving the hand further in his direction.  Clark swallowed and circled the bed to take Lex's hand, his face scarlet.  Pamela watched them in obvious surprise, her smile spreading to light her white face.

 

Lex resisted the decidedly twilight-zone feel of the moment; this was a meeting he'd never dreamed of seeing.  "Pamela, this is Clark Kent.  Clark, Pamela Jenkins."

 

"It's good to meet you, Clark."  Pamela lifted her gaze from their clasped hands to Clark's red face.  "Eli speaks very highly of you."

 

"Oh," Clark said rather faintly.  "He does?"

 

Lex lifted an eyebrow.  "Eli and Clark have bonded over their bad habits." 

 

Clark sighed and ignored him.  "It's good to meet you, too, Pamela."

 

"And they are?"  Pamela studied Clark closely, and Lex wondered exactly how much Eli had told her.  "Apart from bolstering sense of self?"

 

"Oh, repeatedly saving my life, among other assorted depravities."

 

Clark stared pointedly at the ceiling.

 

Pamela chuckled.  "I think you're embarrassing Clark, Alexander."

 

"Oh, no, he's always that color."

 

"Maybe I should go downstairs and wait for Eli," Clark said to the ceiling.

 

"No, I think you should sit down here," Pamela said firmly, before Lex could tighten his grip on Clark's hand.  She patted the bed.  "And stay out of sight until Eli gets here.  Where is the curmudgeon?"

 

Lex cleared his throat as Clark released his hand and perched on the side of the bed.  "He should be along soon."  Clark shot him a glance that spoke worlds about the virtue of keeping one's temper in check and the hell on earth that would no doubt be his once Eli caught up with them.

 

Pamela's eyes narrowed.  "I'm surprised he let you out of his sight."

 

"He didn't have much choice," Clark said dryly.

 

"Oh?"

 

Lex grimaced.  "A little of Eli goes a long way."

 

Pamela regarded him with a sober expression.  "I know he can be difficult.  But he loves you, Alexander."

 

Lex considered the gross implausibility of the suggestion.  "If you say so."

 

"I say so."

 

"He has his own agenda, Pamela.  He always has."

 

"His agenda is to keep you alive and happy."

 

"I'm not happy," Lex snapped.  "Did you ask him not to tell me about your illness?"

 

Pamela paused in obvious surprise.  "He didn't tell you?"

 

"Not until we were almost here."

 

"I see."  Pamela searched Lex's face.  "Maybe he knew I wanted your forgiveness, and not your pity."

 

Lex felt the heat rise to his face; he looked away.  "I can't imagine anyone having the temerity to pity you, Pamela," he said, his voice strained.

 

"Have you considered the possibility that Eli might want your forgiveness too?"

 

Lex actually laughed.  "No.  I haven't."

 

"He didn't want to leave you any more than I did.  He—"  Pamela broke off, and Lex realized that she was listening to someone coming down the hall.  Clark turned his head to stare at the door, his odd little squint on, and Lex frantically wondered if Clark could actually identify people by their x-ray images.  All three of them froze as the footsteps approached the door, then relaxed as they receded into the distance again.

 

Pamela took Lex's hand; Lex could feel her shaking.  "This is too dangerous, Alexander.  You have to leave as soon as Eli gets here.  I'm not going to rest easy until you've put a few hundred miles between you and your father." 

 

Lex scowled, annoyed by the patent absurdity of the evening's events.  He hadn't wanted to come here in the first place.  Now he didn't want to leave.  This was no doubt the result of Kent contamination; all that wholesome living was doing unspeakable things to his higher cognitive functions.  "I'm not certain that _I'll_ rest easy if I leave you anywhere in my father's vicinity."

 

"He might have left already," Clark said hopefully.  "Let me go up to the seventh floor and check."

 

Lex gripped Clark's shoulder tightly.  "I can't even begin to tell you how many ways that isn't going to happen."

 

Clark rolled his eyes with an impatient expression.  "What happened to 'nice moves'?"

 

"You are not going anywhere near—"

 

"Who is Lionel visiting?" Pamela cut in.

 

Clark sighed.  "He's not visiting; he's trying to get someone released.  I couldn't see who it was from the hall."

 

"Released?"  Pamela frowned.  "Do you remember which room it was?" She sat up straight with a visible effort, and picked up the phone sitting on the bedside table.

 

"Um...710.  The big suite at the end of the hall."

 

"What are you doing?"  Lex perched on the side of the bed beside Pamela, careful not to jostle her.

 

Pamela held up her hand to silence him.  "Hello, Margie, this is Elizabeth Pryor in 304.  I believe a friend of mine has been admitted to a room on the seventh floor, but I can't remember the room number.  It might have been 710."

 

Lex couldn't quite suppress a grin.

 

"Lisa Brock.  No?  Are you sure?"  Pamela went very quiet, raising her eyes to Lex's. 

 

Lex felt his grin fade.

 

"I could have sworn that was the room number she gave me.  No, don't bother.  I'm sure she'll call me when she's settled in.  Thank you, Margie."  Pamela hung up and let the phone fall into her lap.

 

"What?" Lex asked, his voice sharp.

 

"The patient in 710 is Lucas Dunleavy.  He's been in a coma with severe head injuries for the past six months."

 

Lex stared blankly.

 

Pamela sighed.  "Eli didn't tell you about Lucas, either."

 

"Tell me what?  Who is—" Lex broke off.  "_Dunleavy?_"

 

"Rachel Dunleavy named her son Lucas."  Pamela met his eyes.  "Lionel was the father, Alexander."

 

Lex studied the weave of the blanket.  "I see."  He didn't see.  He didn't see anything, except that this night was turning into a nightmare of epic proportions.  He felt Clark's warm hand resting on his forearm.  "Did my mother know?"

 

"Of course she did."  Lex could hear the undertone of anger in Pamela's voice.  "She knew every damn time Lionel cheated on her.  Lillian was nobody's fool."

 

"She was fool enough to marry him in the first place," Lex muttered.

 

"Your mother wasn't a fool, Alexander.  She wanted a powerful husband who could protect her and her children.  She had good reasons for feeling that way."

 

"She never loved him," Lex whispered.  He felt Pamela's arm circle his shoulders.

 

"She did, at first.  But love can't survive the kind of treatment it gets from Lionel Luthor." 

 

Lex nodded, dimly aware that Clark had slid closer, that he was being cocooned between them.  "This is why you believed him.  About disinheriting me."

 

"Yes."  Lex could smell her perfume; she still wore the same scent.  "I knew he had another heir."  Pamela bent close.  "Your mother loved you more than anything in the world.  She believed in you.  Those are the things she would want you to remember now."

 

Lex ran his index finger over the face of his watch.  "I really miss her," he whispered.

 

"So do I," Pamela whispered back, and kissed his cheek.

 

***

 

It is a sorry state of affairs when a man who has survived battle, desert, vendetta and torture can be reduced to pathetic wheezing by two flights of stairs.  Playing the part of an old man has come back to haunt me.  I have let Lionel Luthor keep me behind a desk too long. 

 

I shoulder through the door to the third floor and run – a more honest man would say stagger – down the hall toward room 304, hastily acknowledging the nod of recognition I receive from the nurse on duty at the desk.  She honors our arrangement, and allows me to pass – the only one of my arrangements that has not gone awry tonight.  I have, perhaps, three minutes before Graves makes her call, perhaps ten or fifteen before the creature or his operatives arrive to deal with Lucas Dunleavy. 

 

Graves was correct, of course.  Most men would deal with such a situation in a cautious, well-considered manner.  They would track the Dunleavy boy, they would make appropriate arrangements with a member of the staff of the new facility for access and egress, they would carefully construct an alibi and a means of plausible denial in case their operatives betray them.

 

The creature is not most men.  Discretion and caution are concepts he has yet to master.  He is impulsive.  He is brutal.  He is without conscience.

 

Alexander must be either removed from the premises or carefully concealed until the threat has passed.  I pray that he has not already learned what he needed to know, told Pamela what he thought of her and left.  If he has, then I have not a hope of finding him before my time is up.  I push open Pamela's door and enter, my courtesy deserting me, and stand with my mouth hanging open, my words freezing on my tongue. 

 

They are all sitting on the bed together, close together, Pamela and the cricket curled around him as if to fence out all harm; Alexander's head is resting against Pamela's.  The cricket is up and away and standing between us in less than second, but the image is burned into my mind's eye.

 

"Eli," Clark sighs.  He relaxes and backs away; I can see Alexander lifting his head to stare at me.  "Geez, you couldn't have knocked?"  I can only imagine how much the town idiot I must look, for I cannot find words.  The cricket peers at me.  "Are you okay?"

 

"Lionel Luthor is here," I say finally.

 

"We know, Eli," Pamela says in a strangely gentle voice.

 

"The patient he is having released—"

 

"Is his son," Alexander says.  "My brother."

 

I cannot begin to imagine how they have discovered this.  It does not matter.  "The creature knows that Lucas Dunleavy is here."

 

Silence.

 

"Well, okay," Alexander says in his most flippant tone.  "That one went right through my racket.  Game, set and match to Mossad."

 

I move to the bed, restraining my irritation with difficulty.  "This is a serious matter!  He will send someone.  He will—"

 

"Send someone to finish Lucas off."  Alexander has never had any difficulty extrapolating an opponent's likely courses of action from established behavior patterns.  "Yes, I imagine he will.  What do you suggest?"

 

"Suggest?"  I am appalled that any student of mine would ask such a question in this situation.  "I suggest that you and the cricket follow me downstairs at once!  I will bring the car around to the rear entrance and we will return to Smallville immediately."

 

"And what about Lucas?"

 

"Lucas is not your concern, or mine."

 

"He's my _brother_," Alexander says sharply.

 

I resist an ugly and unworthy compulsion to point out that his "brother" is the bastard son of his father's mistress.  "Your father is very much aware that Lucas is in danger.  He will take the necessary security precautions."

 

"He hasn't taken them.  He's here alone, probably because he couldn't trust any of his people with this.  You know what will happen."  Alexander moves off the bed and toward me, his mouth grim.

 

"What will happen is out of our hands."

 

"Why?" the cricket asks suddenly, his voice quiet and angry.  "Is Lucas not human enough for you, too?"

 

Oh, he is relentless.  He bludgeons me with his sense of justice and moral courage, and I am left looking for a rock under which to hide the black shame of my ethics of expediency.  Alexander is watching me, waiting for my answer; his eyes are narrowed to slits, like a cat.  I sigh.  "Very well.  I will go to your father and see to security."

 

Alexander sighs.  "Do you really think he's forgotten that you're supposed to be in Smallville?"

 

"Leave the details to me, Alexander.  Under no circumstances leave this room until I return."  I turn to leave.

 

"Eli."  Alexander's voice is soft, and I turn, surprised.  "Thank you."

 

I snort, unnerved.  "You may thank me by not perpetrating some act of profound stupidity in the next few minutes."

 

Alexander gives me a small smile and does not answer.

 

"Be careful." Clark is looking worried now. 

 

I could almost laugh.  As if I am ever anything but careful.  As if I have not been dealing with Lionel Luthor since before this chirper was born.  "I should learn this from you, perhaps," I say with considerable sarcasm as I open the door.  "You will sit on Alexander if he attempts to leave."

 

"You bet," Clark says cheerfully; Alexander gives him an amused look.

 

"I will be back shortly."  I leave the room and walk as quickly as I can past the duty nurse, and ring for the elevator. 

 

My eyes cannot have deceived me.  He has forgiven her.  I cannot purge the image of Alexander in Pamela's embrace from my mind; it destroys me with its sweetness.  I do not know this boy at all.  I do not know myself.  Why have I brought him here tonight?  I never in my darkest dreams considered exposing Alexander to the dangers of his father's city, until two days ago.  Until I saw Pamela again.  Then it became a mission to me, as if their meeting was of strategic value. 

 

But it is not of strategic value.  I could have relayed Pamela's information, even her messages of affection and desire for reconciliation.  I could have arranged a safe meeting place outside the city.  I could have told Pamela that there was no hope of forgiveness, and never mentioned her to Alexander at all.  I could have done any of those things, but I did not.  I brought Alexander here.  Why?  What is the return for such risk?

 

I do not know myself.

 

***

 

"He _will _be okay, won't he?" Clark asked, touching Lex's arm as he passed.

 

Lex glanced at the door, frowning.  Yet another decision he'd made without thinking it through.  But throwing the brother he'd never known he'd had to Karloff's tender mercies wasn't an option, and Eli had been managing Lionel Luthor for longer than Lex had been alive.  He shrugged off his unease. "Please.  Eli lives for cloak and dagger."  He caught sight of Pamela's face; she was still staring at the door.  "Pamela?"

 

"He looked…old," Pamela said softly.  "For a second." 

 

Old.  Somehow Lex had never really thought of Eli as old, no matter how many times he'd used the word to describe him.  He didn't think Eli could be that much older than his father.  Early sixties, maybe.  It had never occurred to Lex to ask.  Eli was Eli; he never failed and he never changed.  Lex grimaced; he could remember when he'd described himself the same way. 

 

"He'll be fine," Lex said, but he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. "I couldn't just let one of Karloff's thugs come in here and murder Lucas."  Now he sounded defensive.

 

"Of course you couldn't."  Pamela's voice was gentle.  "You did the right thing, Alexander."

 

Lex caught Clark's warm smile out of the corner of his eye, but found himself strangely unconvinced.  "I don't know.  Lucas might be better off dead than the way he is now."

 

"At least his mother won't see him in that condition."  Pamela looked grim now.  "It's horrible to think of that poor woman looking for her boy all this time, only to find him dead to the world.  I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."

 

"She must have gone to see my father," Lex said slowly.  "And he blew her off."

 

"Or threatened her."  Pamela was very quiet.

 

"So she went to see Karloff."  Clark sank to perch on the foot of the bed.  "And told him that your dad had another son."

 

"He couldn't let that become public knowledge.  She signed her own death warrant."  Lex rubbed his eyes.

 

Clark let out a breath.  "She was looking for her son.  Lex, she was looking _at my school_."

 

"She was looking for Lucas in Smallville?"  Pamela looked startled.  "Why?"

 

Lex sighed.  "Because she knew that my father had placed Lucas with another family.  She assumed it was a legal adoption.  She researched—"

 

"Oh, God."  Clark's eyes went wide.

 

"The only adoption agency with which my father's name is associated is Metropolis United Charities."

 

"And my adoption is the only one they handled."

 

Lex nodded, numb.  "She was looking for Clark."

 

Pamela nodded, frowning.

 

Clark swallowed.  "She thought I was Lucas."

 

"More to the point, she told my father she thought you were Lucas."  Lex sighed.  "This is why he didn't use the adoption to pressure your parents.  He thought Rachel would make that connection, and didn't want her story going public."

 

"Lex, he thought _Karloff _would think I was Lucas."  Clark was pale.  "That's why he sent Eli."

 

Lionel's 'ugliness.'  Lex closed his eyes briefly as he realized just how much worse last night could have been.  "Yes." 

 

"Karloff knows my adoption isn't legal."

 

"He can't use it against you."  Lex sat beside him, letting his shoulder press against Clark's.  "He won't dare."

 

"Maybe not," Clark said quietly.  "But I don't think he's guessing anymore, Lex."

 

Pamela's keen eyes swept over Clark.  "Guessing?"

 

No.  Karloff's fragmented memories of the mystery that was Clark.  Nixon's notes.  A piece of the ship.  Seeing Clark's reaction to meteorites with his own eyes.  Evidence of an illegal adoption.  Karloff knew.  He might not be able to prove it to anyone else without a demonstration of Clark's abilities, but he knew. 

 

"It's a long story."  Lex drew a breath and exchanged a quick glance with Clark, who nodded minutely.  "But the gist of it is that Karloff has some information about Clark that would be disastrous for the Kent family if made public."

 

"It's nothing bad," Clark said hastily.  "I mean, I'm not an axe murderer or anything.  It's just…people wouldn't understand."

 

"We all have things about us that we don't want the world to know, Clark," Pamela said gently.  "And from what I've seen, that man is not above using that kind of information if he has it."

 

Lex forced a laugh.  "But he can't use it.  He's afraid of Clark's mother."

 

Clark snorted, his color beginning to return.  "Yeah." 

 

Pamela's eyebrows rose.  "The clone is afraid of Clark's mother?"

 

"Mrs. Kent had the presence of mind to take some extremely damaging photographs of him last night." 

 

"Good for her."

 

"Before she beat him with her broom and chased him off her property."

 

Pamela stared at Clark for a moment, then surprised Lex with her soft laughter.  "Clark.  I would very much like to meet your mother."

 

***

 

I pass room after room occupied by what should be the dead.  This is where the Sisters of Mercy hide the minimally animated corpses that modern medicine considers proof of its triumph over the inevitable.  Grimacing, I approach the nurses' station.  The woman there looks up, frowning, but I speak before she can remind me of the hour.

 

"I am with Mr. Luthor."

 

"Oh.  Of course."  She gestures toward the end of the hall with a hasty and superficial smile, but it is scarcely necessary to direct me.

 

"There!  There!  You've got your goddamn signatures!  Get a gurney up here _now_!"

 

I can hear Luthor all the way down the hall.  He is screaming in frustration.  He is panic-stricken.  It is almost enough to make me feel kindly toward the monster who has caused these gratifying hysterics.  Almost. 

 

"Mr. Luthor, I still strongly advise against this."  Ah, the poor doctor, still attempting to reason with the madman.  He might just as well attempt to eat his own eyeballs as reason with Lionel Luthor when he is gibbering.  "Moving Lucas could kill him."

 

"I've heard enough!"

 

"Mr. Luthor—"

 

"Get out!  If that gurney isn't here in three minutes, you'll be exchanging needles in a free clinic by 6:00 a.m. tomorrow morning!"

 

The poor man comes barreling out of the room, white-faced and wild-eyed, and nearly knocks me over.  "Who…what…you can't go in there," he stammers.

 

"Send the gurney," I say, and walk past him into the room.  Lionel Luthor paces its length like a caged animal, like a crazed thing; but my eye is drawn to the poor wretch in the bed, surrounded by machines.  One look tells me all I need to know – he is a breathing cadaver, and even the breathing is not his own.  The cruelty of trapping the dead in the realm of the living sickens me, but I would expect nothing else from Lionel Luthor.

 

Luthor stops to stare at me as I enter.  "Eli?  What the hell are you doing here?"

 

I glare at him.  "I should be somewhere else?  Where is your security contingent, Mr. Luthor?"

 

"You're supposed to be in Smallville."  Luthor moves hastily to block my view of the boy.

 

"One of my informants called me when I was almost there.  'Lionel Luthor has left his office without protection,' he said.  'No,' I told him. 'Mr. Lionel Luthor would never do that.  Mr. Lionel Luthor is not stupid.'"

 

"Eli," Luthor snarls.

 

"'He's gone to Sisters of Mercy hospital alone, and he's got one of Jameson's guns on his tail," he says.  'But that would mean that Mr. Lionel Luthor is _an idiot_,' I say.  'And that cannot be.'"

 

Luthor flushes and comes closer.  "I tolerated your insubordination while my wife was alive.  That time is long over.  Do you understand me?"

 

"You do not pay me to understand your madness," I say coldly.  "You pay me to protect your interests and your life.  Why are you here without protection for yourself and your son?"

 

Luthor's eyes widened, then narrowed.  "How did you know—"

 

"For twenty-five years you employ me and _now_ you start asking how I know?"  I take no trouble to conceal my impatience.  "Where is the security contingent?"

 

Luthor searches my face for a moment, then opens his coat to reveal the Glock in his breast pocket.  "Here."

 

"Only a fool—"

 

"Handles his own security.  There were other considerations."  Luthor turns away to walk to the side of his son's bed; he stares into that sunken face as if his will alone is sufficient to raise the boy from the dead. 

 

I modulate my tone.  "Is there any hope?"

 

"No," Luthor says flatly.  "None."

 

I cannot restrain myself.  "Then would it not be kinder—"

 

"I have my reasons."

 

His reasons.  Luthor spins his plots like a spider spins its webs, never for a moment considering that one brisk wind may rip them away.  He thinks he rules the wind.  He thinks he rules the world.  What reasons can he have to perpetrate this cruelty on his own flesh and blood?  I grimace at my stupidity.  What reasons did he have to abandon and imprison Alexander?  He is more monster than his creature will ever be.  "Very well.  If you truly wish to keep him alive, you will allow me to call in your security contingent."

 

"No," Luthor growls.

 

"_These _reasons I must know."

 

Luthor turns toward me, and I see the old demon in his eyes; he is too close to the edge to be pressed much further.  "I have reason to believe that my security operation is more of a danger to me than to my enemies."

 

"Indeed."  My palms itch.  It is a bad sign.  "Enlighten me."

 

Luthor examines me minutely.  Then he smiles, and I know that the long game is over. "She never loved you, you know."

 

I finger the weapon in my coat pocket.  "I beg your pardon?"

 

"Lillian.  She never loved you.  We laughed about your sad little infatuation when we were alone together.  She thought you were pathetic."

 

Killing him would be so simple a thing.  "You labor under a delusion," I say harshly, playing for time and a defensible position.  "One that has no bearing on the matter at hand."

 

"Oh, but it does.  I think the fact that my head of security wanted to fuck my wife has a direct bearing on the matter at hand, if the matter is his loyalty.  Tell me, did she ever give you a taste?  Perhaps during one of those long, lonely nights when I was indulging in the pleasures of less aristocratic flesh?"

 

I know he is attempting to distract me, but I am unable to restrain myself.  "You will not speak of Lillian Edouard in that manner."

 

"Lillian Luthor.  She was Lillian _Luthor_."

 

"She was never a Luthor," I rasp, stung beyond discretion.  "And her _son_ will never be a Luthor."

 

Luthor laughs at me.  "_My_ son.  Yes.  The other sad obsession in your life.  How galling it must have been to see your influence over him destroyed.  To see him learn to hate you."

 

I turn toward the door, testing the waters.  Perhaps he is not prepared to kill me here. "This conversation is pointless.  I will make the appropriate arrangements for Lucas' security during his transportation and return when you are lucid."  I see Graves poke her head around the corner of the alcove leading to the stairwell, nod, and disappear again.

 

Luthor blocks my path; he is still laughing.  "But you couldn't bring yourself to leave.  You had to stay and watch.  Why, Eli?"

 

"If you allow your delusion to delay me, it will endanger both you and Lucas."

 

"The great Eli Cohen reduced to a corporate lapdog.  Reduced to taking my orders.  Reduced to watching Lex being molded for greatness despite his mother's weakness—"

 

It is too much.  "You are a fool to say this to me.  It is a lie. Lillian Edouard possessed more strength than ten thousand of you."

 

Luthor sneers. "Lillian _Luthor_."

 

"And you knew it.  You knew she was the stronger.  It frightened you, her strength.  It made you feel the small man you are."  He is no longer smiling.  "_Alexander's_ strength makes you feel the small man you are."

 

Luthor searches my face for a few seconds.  "You only had a few more years until retirement, Eli," he says.  "Why couldn't you have been a good little lapdog and stayed out of my family affairs?"

 

"My opinions constitute interference?"

 

"You know perfectly well we're not talking about your opinions.  We're talking about bribing my security staff and abducting my son."

 

So.  I have been betrayed.  Graves' presence both suggests the identity of the culprit and ensures that throat-cutting is a more imminent business.  "I was unaware that your son had been abducted," I say.  If he would accuse me, then let him accuse himself as well.  Let him accuse himself of imprisoning and torturing Alexander in a dark hole for three weeks.  "My last report placed him safely in his penthouse, entertaining a lady."

 

Luthor smirks.  "You know where my son is.  And it isn't at the penthouse."

 

"Indeed?"

 

"Where is he, Eli?"

 

I see movement out of the corner of my eye, and realize as one arm goes across my chest and the other around my neck that someone has been concealed in the bathroom behind me.  Annoyed by my carelessness, I toss the clumsy oaf over my shoulder and onto his back on the floor, placing my heel on his throat.  It is only then that I recognize him:  Atkins, the dog Jimenez' partner.  One of the men who imprisoned and tormented Alexander, then abandoned him in the fields in the dead of winter instead of bringing him safely to me.  One of the men who attacked Alexander at the Kent house.  The man who has betrayed me to Lionel Luthor.  I smile.  "You are going to die," I tell him with conviction.

 

Atkins gurgles at me as I begin the gratifying progress of crushing his larynx, but the barrel of a Glock 33 is shoved up under my chin before I can finish.

 

Luthor is laughing again.  "Now I remember why I didn't dispose of you twenty years ago.  You're entertaining."

 

"You have no silencer," I point out with justifiable disdain.  I was correct in my suspicions; he is not prepared to kill.

 

"Please forgive my lack of foresight," Luthor chuckles. "But I wasn't expecting you."  He nudges the barrel of the gun into my throat.

 

I straighten slowly, removing my foot from Atkins' throat; he scrambles to his feet, coughing and glowering.  "You are expecting someone else?"

 

"I'm prepared for that contingency."

 

"Your standard in lackeys has declined."

 

"Watch your mouth, old man," Atkins snarls, still rubbing his neck.  He pulls open my coat and relieves me of my weapon.

 

"A diamond in the rough," Luthor says with considerable sarcasm.  "He's provided valuable information about the replicate's activities."

 

The replicate.  How calmly he says the words, as if he is referring to his pet dog.  But he is not calm, for all his laughter and swagger.  His eyes glitter, he is pale, his gun hand is unsteady.  Lionel Luthor is afraid.

 

"He provided valuable information to me as well," I say, not troubling to conceal my contempt.  "The dog is full of valuable information. You are a fool.  He will put a knife in your back and run to your creature for his reward."

 

"Your concern for my well-being touches me deeply.  Where is Lex?"

 

"He is where he has been for the past four months – safely out of your reach."

 

I can see him seethe with frustration.  "You can't think I intend to harm my own son."

 

I laugh in his face.  I cannot help myself.  "No, of course not.  You take your son's name from him, but it is not to harm him.  You take your son's life from him, but it is not to harm him."

 

"It wasn't," Luthor snarls.

 

"Your monster beat him and burned him for his own good, I suppose."  He stares at me blankly.  "You will never lay eyes on your son again.  You are not worthy to lay eyes on your son."

 

Luthor's eyes go very dark.  "Ah, Eli," he says softly.  "You really should have stayed in Smallville."

 

***

 

"I don't like it."  Lex stopped pacing and turned to Pamela, scowling.  "You can't stay here.  It's just a matter of time before my father finds out where you are."

 

"What's he going to do?"  Pamela's voice was dry.  "Kill me?"  Lex opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and Pamela closed her eyes.  "Alexander.  Come here."  She extended her hand.

 

Lex crossed the room wordlessly, feeling Clark's eyes on him, and took Pamela's hand.

 

"I'm not afraid of your father anymore," Pamela said gently.  "Do you understand?"

 

Lex nodded, blinking.

 

"Right now, all I want is to spend time with you."

 

"Come to Smallville," Clark said suddenly.

 

Lex shot him a startled look.  "Smallville?"

 

Clark blew out a breath, but before he could answer the door was knocked open with considerable violence and a slender figure in a full length leather coat strode through it.  Lex received the indistinct impression of short blonde hair, short skirt and nice legs before Clark planted himself between the intruder and the bed.

 

"You're an idiot, Luthor," the woman snapped, face flushed and voice cold, her eyes fixed on Lex.  "You sent him up there, didn't you?"

 

Lex stared blankly for a moment, then recognized her from the photo Eli had sent him.  Christ.  "What are you doing here, Ms. Graves?"  Could Karloff be far behind?  He saw the question echoed in Clark's dismayed expression.

 

Mercy ignored him. "It wasn't enough that he's been putting his ass on the line for you day and night for the past four months.  You had to keep at him, you had to make him ignore every shred of common sense and push his damn luck—"

 

"Shouldn't you be dancing attendance on the redundant wonder?"  Lex left Pamela's side to stand beside Clark.

 

"_You _told Karloff Mr. Luthor was here," Clark said angrily.

 

Mercy's startled gaze traveled from Lex's face to Clark's; her eyes narrowed.  "Eli didn't tell you about the arrangement."

 

"I think you'd better leave."  Lex saw Clark's muscles tighten, and stepped forward to edge in front of him.

 

Mercy snorted. "He's as much of an idiot as you are, and I don’t have time for his martyr complex.  Your father's got a gun to Eli's head, and you're going to do something about it."

 

Lex felt his stomach clench.  "A gun."  He hadn't thought it through.

 

"The old bastard knows, you moron!  Eli's cover is blown."

 

"And you're here to tell us out of the goodness of your heart."  Lex crossed his arms across his chest, ignoring the persistent sensation of his thudding heart.

 

"Alexander."  Pamela's voice was strained, and Lex glanced at her over his shoulder.  "Eli asked her to accept the job.  To keep an eye on the clone."

 

Lex scowled, taken aback.  "He didn't tell me."

 

"I think there's a great deal that Eli hasn't told you," Pamela said gently. 

 

"Quite a coincidence that the job was offered in the first place."

 

Mercy's eyes narrowed.  "Not unless you call pounding a couple of muggers' heads into the pavement a coincidence.  Lex gets very friendly very fast when somebody saves his skin."

 

"We have to get Eli out of there, Lex," Clark said quietly, unaccountably flushed.

 

Lex felt his throat tighten as the scenario played out before his mind's eye.  Eli abducted.  Eli dead.  Eli.  This wasn't…acceptable.  "What do you suggest?" he demanded in a harsh tone.

 

Mercy put her hands on her hips and glowered at him, a pose that coincidentally displayed her figure to full advantage.  "Suggest?  I'm not suggesting anything.  You're going to get Eli out of there and I'm going back to Lex before I wind up with a gun to _my _head."

 

"He's not Lex," Clark snapped.  "He's not anything like Lex."

 

Mercy snorted, looking Lex up and down.  "Looks the same to me.  Apart from the flannel."

 

Lex gave her his most charming smile.  "I'm glad to hear you say so."

 

"No," Clark said sharply.  "Don't even think about it."

 

Lex shed his jacket, wondering if telepathy were the next gift on Clark's schedule of surprises, or if he was just getting to know Lex too damn well. "Please lend me your coat, Ms. Graves."

 

Mercy glared.  "Why?"

 

"Why not?  I look great in leather."

 

"You're not doing this."  Clark took Lex by the shoulders, his face drawn.

 

Lex lifted an eyebrow.  "I'm beginning to think you have no faith in my fiendishly clever plans, Clark."

 

"Lex, for God's sake—"

 

"You're not the only one with nice moves."

 

"Then I'm coming with you."

 

"Ms. Graves is coming with me."

 

"The hell I am," Mercy snapped.

 

"You'll enhance the illusion."  Lex snapped his fingers imperiously.  "Coat."

 

"I'm coming with you, Lex," Clark repeated obstinately.

 

"I need you to stay with Pamela."  Lex leaned close, resting a hand on Clark's chest.  "I need you to protect her.  Clark.  Do this for me."  Clark closed his eyes.

 

Mercy stepped closer.  "Look, flannel boy, I'm not taking on Lionel Luthor.  He's already taken out a couple of Lex's players who got too close."

 

"He's not Lex!"  Clark's face was taut, his voice close to a shout.

 

"Don't be a moron," Lex said coldly, turning to Mercy.  He slipped his hand up to squeeze Clark's shoulder gently. "You took on Lionel Luthor the second you started working for Karloff.  Give me the damn coat."

 

Mercy regarded him with narrowed eyes for a moment, then shrugged out of her coat and tossed it to him.  "I hope you act better than you dress."

 

Lex grimaced and shoved his arms into the coat, trying not to look at the anguish in Clark's face.  "Please.  I was born for the part."

 

***

 

"Take him down to the car."  Luthor turns his back to me; the ultimate expression of his contempt.

 

I snort as Atkins takes me by the arm.  Luthor cannot possibly imagine that this cretin will herd me like a sheep to the abattoir. 

 

"And before you think about tossing Mr. Atkins again, I'm going to remind you about the lady in room 304."

 

I turn to stare at him.

 

Luthor smiles back.  "We wouldn't want her death to be more unpleasant than it has to be."

 

I draw a breath.  "You are a coward.  Always you have been a coward.  Lillian knew this.  She knew everything."

 

"That's enough," Luthor says, low and sharp.

 

"Every crime.  Every cruelty.  Every cheap whore."  Luthor strides toward me, fist clenched, and I brace myself.  He raises his hand to strike me, but stops at the sound of applause.  Turning, I see the creature leaning against the doorjamb, smirking, clapping; Graves stands behind him, watching the scene with an admirable _sang froid_, considering that she is about to have her throat cut.

 

"Oh, that's great.  Really."  The creature saunters into the room, grinning.  "Eli, you haven't lost your style.  You're first class entertainment." 

 

"So I am told," I say coldly.  I note with considerable amusement that Atkins is backing away from his former employer with wide eyes and a white face, aiming my gun with shaking hands. 

 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Luthor snarls, backing away to stand between the creature and the bed. 

 

"Just dropped by to say 'hi' to little brother."  The creature pauses at the side of the bed, and something in his face captures my attention.  My eyes fall to the coat he is wearing.  To the flash of plaid beneath the collar. 

 

It is with difficulty that I maintain my composure.  Alexander.  Alexander, the stark raving mad, has walked into the lion's den. 

 

"Whoa.  Not much left there, is there?"  Alexander turns to Atkins, his eyes like knives of ice.  "A cautionary tale on the disadvantages of having one's skull smashed in, don't you think?"

 

"Should I kill him?" Atkins' voice is shaking as well.

 

"Don't be absurd," Luthor snaps.  "Put that away."

 

Alexander glances at his father, chuckling as Atkins lowers but does not conceal the weapon. "Hiring my cast-offs again, are we?"

 

"Get out," Luthor rasps.

 

Alexander leans against the foot of the bed.  His mimicry of the creature's mannerisms is astonishing; I find myself contemplating with horror how many hours he must have spent in the thing's company to master them.  "You know," he says conversationally, glancing at Lucas, "I've heard that, in cases like this, if you put a flashlight at the base of the skull, the light shines through the eyes."

 

"You're a psychopath," Luthor says, and his voice is shaking.

 

Alexander sneers.  "Praise from my master is the light of my eyes."

 

"You've satisfied your morbid curiosity.  Now get out."

 

"Oh, my curiosity's not even close to being satisfied.  Why all this frenetic activity over the flatline?"

 

"You know why."  Luthor stares bleakly at the form in the bed.

 

"Fatherly devotion."  The acid drips from Alexander's voice.  "I'm moved."

 

"No doubt."

 

"And unconvinced.  Come on, Dad.  Just between us Luthors.  Why haven't you hired someone to hold a pillow over Junior's face?"

 

Luthor's eyes narrow.  "I think we've had enough ugliness, don't you?"

 

Alexander's eyes widen with angelic innocence.  "Ugliness?"

 

"The matter was being handled in a civilized manner.  Your actions have placed us both in a very awkward position."

 

Alexander shrugs.  "As you yourself have so often demonstrated, not everything can be handled in a civilized manner."  He meets Luthor's eyes squarely before glancing at Atkins, who cringes like the dog that he is.  "Things certainly weren't looking too civilized when I arrived." 

 

"The help occasionally forgets its place."  Luthor shoots me a scathing look.  "This matter is also being handled."

 

"I'd be happy to handle it for you."

 

"No, thank you."

 

"I insist."  Alexander is smiling, moving, drawing his father's attention.  Atkins hovers to one side, not five feet from me, his hand hovering near my gun, which he has slipped into the waist of his pants.  There is no one between me and the door except Graves, who is signaling me to run with two fingers tapping on her folded arms.  "I specialize in handling uppity help." 

 

I ignore Graves' insistent signal.  If this mad boy believes that I will leave him here alone to deal with an armed and furious Lionel Luthor, then he does not know me. 

 

Perhaps he does _not_ know me.

 

Luthor's lip curls.  "Spare me.  I've seen police photos of your specialty."

 

"I'm shocked that the police would affront your delicate sensibilities."  Alexander slides a finger along the top of the guardrail as he walks toward the head of the bed.

 

"What do you want?"

 

"My father's undying love."  He examines the respirator.

 

"I don't have time for your games!"

 

"Nor I for yours."  Alexander's voice is a glacier; it towers over all of us.  "You never mentioned little brother, Dad."

 

"It didn't concern you."

 

Graves' signaling becomes frenzied.  It occurs to me that the boy might actually refuse to leave until I am in the clear.  The thought disorders my mind; I turn to stare at Alexander like a stupid rabbit into oncoming headlights.

 

He does not look at me.  I can see that his entire attention is focused on his father, even though his eyes are fixed on the controls of the respirator.  "Everything that impacts LuthorCorp is my business.  After all, it's going to be all mine someday." 

 

Alexander's hand lunges toward the power button on the panel of the respirator as Luthor utters an inarticulate and strangled cry and seizes him, dragging him away from the bed and into the wall.  Atkins yanks my gun from his belt, but one swipe of my leg knocks it from his hand and one fist in his face sends him sprawling to the floor with a bloody nose, dazed. 

 

I snatch up my gun and move toward Alexander, but Graves twists my free arm up behind my back and propels me toward the door, muttering unladylike curses beneath her breath.  Before I can break free, the door bursts open and a streak of blue and red with brilliant, dark eyes blazes across the room to take Lionel Luthor by the front of his coat, rip him away from Alexander, throw him up against the wall.  He holds Luthor there, his feet dangling six inches above the floor.

 

"Don't touch him," the cricket says in a shaking voice.  "Don't ever touch him again."

 

Alexander lets out a breath and lays a hand on Clark's arm.  "Clark.  Let him go."  Clark does not obey; he stares into that stunned face with enough rage to terrify a braver man than Lionel Luthor will ever be.

 

I feel someone take my other arm, and turn to see Pamela, fully dressed and on her feet, however unsteadily.  "Eli, we're leaving," she says.

 

Alexander shoots us a look over his shoulder.  "Get them out of here _now_," he says to Graves.  His face is white.

 

"I will not—" I begin, but Pamela cuts me off.

 

"He won't leave until you're safe," she says urgently.  "Come right now, Eli."

 

He will not leave until I am safe.  Pamela looks at me with impatience, as if I should have expected this, when it is shaking the ground beneath my feet.  "Very well."  Graves releases me, and I seize the dog Atkins by the collar and pull him to his feet, shoving the barrel of my gun into his back.  "Mr. Atkins will join us; we have unfinished business."

 

"Luthor," Atkins yelps as I force him toward the door.  "Luthor, do something!"

 

I glance at the unchanged tableau a few feet away; Alexander meets my eyes.  "Go," he says. 

 

I nod and leave.  I do not know this boy.

 

***

 

Lex curled his cold fingers around Clark's arm, watching Lionel's expression change from blank shock to incredulity to realization.  His heart was pounding in his ears.  "Clark.  Lines."

 

"Lex?" Lionel breathed.

 

Clark drew a breath and let it out in a long, shaking sigh, then lowered Lionel until his feet touched the floor.  "Don't try to touch him again," he said unevenly, stepping back.

 

Lionel didn't spare him a glance.  "Lex, is it...why are you here?  I thought—"

 

"I'm not interested in hearing your thoughts."  Lex reached inside Lionel's coat to retrieve the gun and backed away.  "We're going to stay right here until Eli and Pamela are a hundred miles from you, and you're going to keep your mouth shut."

 

"I thought you were in Europe," Lionel continued in a husky voice, as if Lex hadn't spoken.  "I thought I'd never see you again."

 

"I was," Lex said coldly.  "And you won't."

 

Lionel swallowed.  "Lex, you have to listen to me.  It wasn't supposed to happen this way."

 

Lex put something like a smile on his face.  "Of course not.  I was supposed to break after a few rounds of cigarette lighters and bad touching, tell you what you needed to know, and be thrown into one of Plant Number Three's processing vats."  He heard Clark's sharp intake of breath and cursed inwardly.

 

Lionel's face twisted into something like horror; Lex was duly impressed by the reasonable facsimile of sincerity.  "The replicate?"

 

"Please.  Let's not embarrass ourselves, shall we?"

 

"I didn't know, Lex.  I swear I didn't know that he'd hurt you."

 

"I suggest a dignified silence."

 

"That was not supposed to happen!  I didn't realize then how unstable he was."

 

"We don't believe you," Clark said, and Lex felt the ground steady under his feet.  "We don't believe anything you say."

 

Lionel shot him an annoyed look and turned back to Lex.  "This is a private family conversation, Lex.  Tell your friend to excuse us."

 

"I don't want him to excuse us."  Lex resisted the absurd compulsion to tell him exactly how much more "family" Clark was than Lionel had ever been.  "We are not a family.  This is not a conversation.  I have nothing to say to you."

 

Lionel stepped closer, his gaze boring into Lex's, and Lex felt Clark stiffen at his side.  "He wasn't supposed to live.  He was never supposed to live."

 

Lex, increasingly confused, said nothing.  Lionel was taking an unexpected and ingenious tack, and Lex felt completely unprepared to counter it.

 

"He was a prototype.  He was _engineered _not to live more than six weeks, eight weeks at the most, do you understand?  I never intended to replace you.Lex laughed hollowly. 

 

"Of course not.  An investment of a hundred and eighty-six million, all to indulge your idle curiosity.  Our little interrogation sessions were your idea of quality time, I suppose."




 

"He was only there to make you to see reason.  If you had just cooperated—"

 

"I'd be dead now," Lex said flatly.

 

Lionel glared at him in obvious exasperation.  "You'd be alive and well, and back home in Metropolis, and so would Lucas.  I did it for him, Lex.  For you.  For all of us."

 

Bewildered, Lex shot a glance toward the emaciated boy curled into a fetal position on the bed, the extent of his ghastly head wound obvious through the bandages that covered his misshapen skull.  He couldn't be much older than Clark.

 

"You were going to clone Lucas," Clark said in a quiet, horrified voice.  "You wanted to clone Lucas, so you used Lexas a guinea pig to make sure it worked."

 

Lionel turned to examine Clark minutely, and Lex felt his skin crawl.  "This is none of your business, Clark.  Please keep your mouth shut."

 

"You made it his business," Lex snapped.  "You dragged the Kents into this as much as I did."

 

"I don't give a damn about the Kents."

 

"You don't give a damn about anyone.  Is Clark right?  Is that why you're keeping this kid half-alive?"

 

Lionel's eyes narrowed.  "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you had some sort of ethical objection."

 

Lex felt his free hand balling into a fist.  "That's fucking barbaric."

 

"You're being ridiculous.  Is it possible you don't understand—"

 

"I understand.  And you're a damn fool if you think he has an active neuron left, let alone any engram worth duplicating."

 

Lionel's eyes narrowed.  "We won't know that until we try."

 

"It won't work," Lex said harshly.  "He's gone.  This isn't something you can fix."

 

"I want us to be a _family_."  Lionel's voice rose passionately.  "No more secrets, no more lies.  You, your brother and I."

 

"And the abomination in the tank makes four."

 

"He was supposed to have been dead by now!"

 

"Odd that this planned obsolescence isn't mentioned anywhere in the records of this rather circuitous route to family unity."

 

Lionel's eyes widened.  "Records?"

 

"Especially when one considers how detailed they are in every other respect."

 

"You've seen the records?"

 

"Right down to your suitable heir's first words.  Do you remember those, Dad?"

 

"Where did you get them?  Do you still have them?"

 

"You know what Karloff whispered in Daddy's ear, Clark?"

 

"No," Clark said quietly.  "You never told me, Lex."

 

"He said, 'I'm going to kill you.'"  Lex heard himself laughing, and suspected that it sounded slightly hysterical.  "So…how've you been, Dad?  Any unexplained health problems?  Unexpected car trouble?  Mysterious household accidents?"  Lex drew in a breath as Clark curled his fingers around his arm, drawing close.

 

Lionel's face had gone white. 

 

"I thought so."  Lex forced another laugh.  "Of course, I imagine he's had a few unpleasant surprises himself." 

 

"Why haven't you killed him?" Lionel snarled.  

 

"What makes you think I'd have a greater aptitude for cold-blooded murder than you, Dad?"

 

"Don't be absurd!  It isn't murder.  That thing isn't a human being."

 

The words made Lex's stomach clench; he could feel Clark's hand shake.  "I don't think you're in any way qualified to decide who is and isn't human," he heard himself saying.

 

"Lex."  Lionel's tone became conciliatory; his expression softened.  "Son.  Listen to me.  We can salvage this situation."

 

"Define salvage."

 

"The replicate is a danger to both of us.  He has to be eliminated.  Together we could do that."

 

"Or I could just wait until one of you kills the other off," Lex retorted coldly.  "And then make my move."

 

Lionel surprised him with a slow grin.  "Adversity has brought out the best in you.  I've been very impressed by your resourcefulness, Lex."

 

Another curve.  Lex took another step back.  "My resourcefulness."

 

"You've put a considerable strain on LuthorCorp operations in the past few months.  It's an impressive accomplishment for a man in your circumstances.  We can help each other."

 

"How?" Lex breathed.

 

***

 

_"Yes?"_

I cradle the cell phone between my shoulder and ear as I turn the corner and park a few yards away from the ambulance entrance.  "Max.  It is moving day."  I ignore the frantic pounding from the trunk.  Mr. Atkins seems to find his current accommodations undesirable.

 

_"Understood."_

"Twenty-four hours, at the rabbit's hole."

 

_"As you wish."_

"Thank you, Max." I hang up.  Reliable allies are gold today.

 

"_This _is your idea of a getaway?" 

 

Graves' voice is strident, and I cast her a quelling glance.  "It is."

 

"We're not leaving without Alexander and Clark," Pamela says firmly, and I meet her eyes in the rearview mirror.  Her mind and spirit are still strong, even if her body is failing, and I do not underestimate the value of our alliance.

 

"Fine."  Graves opens the car door and climbs out, clearly furious.  One might suppose it has been a trying evening for her.  "I'm going back to Lex.  And I'm telling him that Flannel Boy and Hayseed Junior staged some half-ass commando raid—"

 

I shove my phone into my breast pocket with unnecessary force.  "You will not."

 

"—to spring Red here—"

 

"Name's Pamela," Pamela snaps.

 

"—and tangled with Daddy Luthor."

 

I shove open my door and stride around the car to intercept her.  "You will not tell the creature that you have seen Alexander."

 

"His people will be here any minute, Eli.  If they're not here already.  They're going to find out.  He's been seen.  If my report contradicts—"

 

"Eli," Pamela says, her voice sharp.

 

I continue to block Graves' path.  "And what will you say when he finds out that you were seen with him?  It is too late, Miss Graves.  The game is over.  You must leave."

 

"I'm not leaving."  She is like steel.  "I'll tell him that your boy impersonated him, and that I pretended to buy it to find out what he was up to."

 

"Eli, the ambulance."  Pamela emerges, leaning heavily on the car, but my attention must not be diverted from the matter at hand.

 

"You seem very eager to report back to your subject this evening, Miss Graves."

 

Graves' eyes narrow.  "That's my job, isn't it?"

 

"Your job is to monitor the creature's activities and report back to me.  Your job is to facilitate his removal."

 

Graves says nothing for a moment, studying me.  "He's going to win, Eli," she says finally.  "You must know that."

 

I allow my fingers to curl around the gun in my coat pocket.  "I do not." 

 

"You didn't see him trying to fight off those muggers.  He's smart.  He's tough.  And he's crazy enough to do what it takes to win, no matter what.  He's going to win, Eli.  Your boy should give up, before he gets himself killed."

 

"He will not give up.  Alexander will fight until he has won back his name.  And if you are not part of the solution, Miss Graves, then you are part of the problem.  I do not recommend such a choice."

 

"Damn it, Eli!"  Pamela has seized my arm, her face drawn in anxiety.  "Look at the ambulance!"

 

I glance at the ambulance parked in the drive, and see nothing out of the ordinary, apart from a slightly ajar rear door.  It is a Mayfair ambulance, no doubt the transportation Luthor has arranged for Lucas, but the medics are nowhere to be seen.

 

"Oh, Christ," Graves says with something like resignation.  "Eli, the door."

 

It takes me a moment to realize that the door is ajar because something is hanging from the rear of the ambulance. 

 

It is an arm.

 

***

 

Lex found himself remembering a story his mother had read him when he was little, about a mongoose and a bird and a cobra. 

 

"We can still make my plan work.  With the records of the cloning project, we can recreate the research in months, perhaps weeks. We could correct the errors made with the prototype.  We could save your brother, and eliminate this defective replicate. You and Lucas could regain your rightful places in the world."

 

Lex could hear the soft chime of the elevator at the end of the hall, the rattle of metal and the hum of rubber wheels on linoleum.  The gurney was coming, coming to take what was left of Lucas where its valuable Luthor engrams could be properly protected. 

 

"What's Lex's rightful place?" Clark asked, and Lex drew in a startled breath, suddenly aware of his surroundings again, of Clark poised to move on Lionel, of Lionel's alarming proximity. 

 

"For the last time, Clark," Lionel said, his voice dropping to a snarl, "Stay out of this.  You and your family have already interfered in Luthor business more than is healthy for you."

 

Lex grimaced and raised the hand holding Lionel's gun, which he had let fall to his side.  _Run and hide thee, Nag._ "What's my rightful place, Dad?"

 

Lionel seemed taken aback by the question.  "What's your _place?  _What it's always been.  Isn't that what you want?  Isn't that what you've been fighting for?" 

 

A soft knock at the door made Lex start and stuff the gun into the pocket of Mercy's coat.  "Come in," he said, backing away from Lionel.

 

"Don't be an idiot," Lionel said in an undertone, as the two Mayfair ambulance drivers pushed open the door and pulled the gurney inside.  "Don't let your emotions rule you, Lex.  Don't let your anger blind you to this opportunity."

 

"I'll sleep on it," Lex said steadily, feeling anything but steady.  "On the other side of the planet."  He backed away toward the door, but froze when he heard it open.  Clark was instantly at his back.

 

"Excuse me, Mr. Luthor."  The voice was appropriately servile.  "Your son has a phone call at my desk." 

 

Clark would always have his back.

 

"He says it's urgent."  A touch of annoyance.  "And you two _know _I need a copy of the transport authorization form."

 

Because Clark was his partner.  And he had nice moves.

 

"I'm coming."  Lex swung away from his father and brushed past the glaring nurse, feeling rather than seeing Clark slip into position behind him, putting himself between Lex and Lionel.  His partner had _great _moves, and Lex fervently looked forward to telling him so in bed, where he could express his appreciation in no uncertain terms.  He strode to the desk, leaned over the counter and snatched up the receiver lying off its hook on the desktop.  There was only one person it could be.  "Where are you?"

 

_"Run.  Now.  The rear entrance."  _

 

Eli's voice was shaking, but before Lex could collect his thoughts enough to ask a coherent question, a woman's shriek echoed through the empty corridor.  Whirling, Lex heard the sound of a blow and an inarticulate shout from Lionel, saw Clark bolting back through the open door of Lucas' room, heard the eerie, unmistakable sound of shots being fired with a silencer. 

 

_"Alexander!"_

Eli's voice was a scream, but Lex dropped the phone and sprinted after Clark, only to have Lionel propelled out of the room and into his arms, wild-eyed and panting, clutching frantically at Lex's leather coat.  Lex struggled to free himself; he could clearly hear the sounds of bodies impacting on the walls of the room and objects hitting the floor, could see the nurse, lying either unconscious or dead on the floor beside the bed.  He managed to yank an arm free of Lionel's panicked grasp just as Clark reappeared at the door, bone-white and grim-faced.

 

Wordless, Clark took both Lex and Lionel by the arm and dragged them down the hall and into the stairwell.

 

"They shot him," Lionel stuttered as they staggered down the stairs.  "They shot him, they shot Lucas—"

 

"If I didn't know you better, I'd think you had some sort of ethical objection," Lex snarled, trying not to fall flat on his face as Clark yanked them past the sixth-floor entrance.

 

"They tried to shoot _me—_"

 

"Mr. Luthor," Clark snapped, giving him a none-too-gentle shove. "Shut up."

 

A door slammed open above them, and the sound of booted feet echoed down the empty stairwell.  Cursing under his breath, Lex yanked the gun out of his coat pocket.

 

***

 

_"Alexander!" _ I am screaming into the phone like a madman, and then I am moving, knocking Graves into the side of the ambulance as she attempts to stop me.  The automatic doors of the hospital entrance open too slowly; I squeeze between them, drawing my weapon, and shoulder through the door into the stairwell.  I can hear the startled voices of people in the corridor behind me and know that I have been seen, that soon whatever has happened on the seventh floor will be discovered and the police will arrive, that Alexander, if he still lives, will be in even greater danger than he is now – and all because, for reasons I do not even begin to comprehend, I have brought him here to die in this trap.

 

My stomach turns; my speed increases; I take the dirty concrete steps two at a time. It is impossible that I should fail _all_ of them, Joseph and Lillian and Alexander.  Impossible.  I cannot, must not, will not fail the last of the Edouards.  I hear a door above me slam into the wall and the sound of voices.  Luthor's voice, Clark's…and Alexander's.  The muscles in my legs go weak, and I pause, panting like a dog.  He is alive, and free.  And angry.  Alexander's anger is an old friend; it buoys me as nothing else could.  I begin climbing again, forcing myself to move quickly despite the protests of my aching legs.  Another door slams open above me, and I know what is happening, why they are running; the danger is not past, it is on their heels.

 

I have no silencer.  It does not matter.  The situation is well past the stages in which discretion is a virtue.  I can hear Luthor's and Alexander's harsh breathing and stumbling footsteps as I pass the door to the third floor; I know that the steady breaths and steps are Clark's.  I shout "Cricket, get them down!" and know that he will do it; I make the last turn in time to see Clark pull Luthor and Alexander into a huddle on the steps as two men in ill-fitting Mayfair Ambulance Company uniforms round the bend in the stairs, bringing their weapons to bear.

 

I charge past the three crouched on the stairs, catching Alexander's startled expression as I do so, and fire at the closest of the pair.  He collapses in a gratifying spray of blood, bone and cranial tissue as part of his head is sheared away and both he and his companion fire. The dying man's shot ricochets off the metal railing, and the other creases my forearm. I stagger into the wall as my gun falls from my numb hand.  The remaining man is smirking as he targets me.

 

Without warning, Alexander bursts into my field of vision, passes me, stands between me and my attacker and fires a wild, inaccurate shot in the dog's direction.  I knock Alexander aside as the man fires again, but too late; even as I recover my weapon and bring the second assailant down with a wound to the chest, I can see a blood stain spreading along the side of Alexander's shirt as he collapses to the steps.

 

I am on my knees holding him in my arms before the dead man has had the decency to fall, before the cricket and Luthor can reach us.  But he is laughing.  Laughing.

 

"Like a windmill…on a sand dune," he laughs up at me, reaching up to lay a hand on my cheek.  "Shoot me, shoot me."

 

I pull him close, holding him with his head resting against my chest, as I did when he was a very small boy; his arm goes around my waist.  I cannot think.  I cannot move.  The cricket is there, kneeling beside us, eyes wide and wild; I watch him pull Alexander's shirt up to reveal a long, shallow wound across his left side.  The wound is superficial, but I do not release my boy.  I rest my head atop his.

 

"Uncle Eli," Alexander murmurs against my chest.  "Breathe."

 

I cannot breathe.  He has not called me "uncle" since he was eleven years old.  Since Lillian died.  Since I abandoned him.  "Sasha," I mutter, not knowing what I am saying.  "It is my fault.  Everything I have done is wrong.  Tonight.  Always.  All wrong."  I have gone mad.  I know I must get Alexander and Clark out of this place immediately, but I cannot stop babbling like a senile old man.  "I did not want to leave you.  I was wrong to leave you.  But I promised...I promised—"

 

"No black shame tonight," Alexander whispers.  "I left the wheelbarrow at home."

 

I have nothing but black shame to offer.  I close my mouth.

 

Clark is breathing hard now; love and fear force from him what physical exertion cannot.  He leans close to peer into Alexander's face.

 

"Relax, Jiminy." Alexander turns his head enough to offer the cricket an odd little grin.  "The last move just got away from me."

 

"Your moves suck, mastermind," Clark snaps, his voice breaking, his mouth an inch from Alexander's.  "From now on, the junior partner is in charge of moves."  Alexander's free hand curls around Clark's, and Clark clutches it tightly against his chest.

 

I feel someone trying to pull my weapon from my hand, and only then do I become fully aware of my surroundings.  Turning toward Luthor, I shove the weapon into his face.  "Is this what you are looking for, Mr. Luthor?"

 

Luthor recoils slightly.  "Give me the gun," he stammers.

 

I laugh at him.  "Do you know why _I _did not kill _you _years ago?"

 

"The police—"

 

"I will tell you.  Because Lillian Edouard made me swear by her father's memory not to end your miserable life as you deserved."  I feel rather than see Alexander lift his head.  "She would not have her child fatherless.  Never in her darkest dreams was she capable of imagining that her son could be fatherless while you were still _living_."

 

"Eli," Clark says very quietly.  "I hear sirens."

 

I do not care about sirens.  I am insane. "You have orphaned your own son.  Perhaps this releases me from my promise."  I observe with satisfaction the coward's attempt to back away. 

 

Alexander removes his hand from Clark's to wrap his fingers around my gun hand.  "Eli.  Don't."

 

Luthor draws a breath.  "Give me the gun.  I'll talk to the police."

 

"Yes, I imagine you will," Alexander snarls.

 

"I'll claim I fired in self-defense.  There won't be any trouble."

 

I stare up at him, wordless.  Alexander regards his father with narrowed eyes and says nothing.

 

"They'll be here any minute.  Give me the damn gun."  Luthor is trying to be brave; it does not suit him.

 

"Give it to him, Eli," Alexander says finally.

 

Alexander's voice is strained; he is in pain.  It is enough to rouse me from my stupor.  I hand Luthor my weapon, taking care not to let the man touch me when I do so.  "Betray Alexander again—"

 

"My son is not an orphan," Luthor snarls, wiping my prints from the gun with his coat. He turns and fires into the body of the man with the chest wound, and I see Clark blanch and turn away with a horrified expression.  He does not understand the necessity.  He does not understand most of what he has seen tonight.

 

"I'll deal with whoever is near the rear entrance."  Luthor is speaking to Alexander now.  "Give me five minutes." 

 

"Don't even think about setting Eli and Clark up for this," Alexander says harshly.  "Or the police will be hearing about more than you'd care to explain."

 

Luthor stoops suddenly, trying to touch Alexander's face.  Alexander pulls away and both Clark and I seize Luthor's arm.  "It wasn't supposed to be this way, Lex," Luthor tells him, ignoring us, desperately trying to catch his son's eye.  "My offer stands."

 

Alexander sets his jaw and tries to stand.  Clark and I release Luthor to help him to his feet.  He does not answer his father, does not look at him; he has fixed his gaze on Clark's face. 

 

Luthor turns to me.  "Tell me where to send the doctor."  I laugh at him; Luthor flushes.  "If anything happens to Lex—"

 

"Choke on your hypocrisy.  Everything that has happened to Alexander is to be laid at your door."

 

"He needs—"

 

"Alexander's needs are not and never have been your concern."  I hear a door open slowly beneath us, and Luthor turns toward the sound. 

 

Snatching up the gun Alexander has dropped, I lean over the railing to see the flash of a dark blue Metropolis police uniform.  "If you are going to deal with this, deal with it now," I say in an undertone.

 

Luthor shoots me a look full of curled lip, turns, and strides down the steps like a god descending from on high.  "Sergeant Grissom.  Thank God you're here."

 

***

 

"The bleeding is stopping."   The relief in Eli's voice was palpable.




 

Lex pinched his eyes shut as Clark's amputated sleeve was gently pressed against his side again.  "I told you I healed fast." He could hear the noise of the city fading as Clark made the turn onto the highway.  Pamela's grip on his hand loosened as she fell asleep in the fully-reclined front passenger seat, but Lex held onto it anyway.  Her pain medication had finally kicked in.  It took a while, Lex remembered.  He tried to sit up.

 

"No noise from you," Eli snapped, pressing him onto his back again.

 

Lex grimaced.  "You'll get more noise than you can handle when Mrs. Kent sees Clark's shirt."

 

"Lex, shut up about the stupid shirt."  Clark's voice was decidedly unsteady.  "Does he need Toby, Eli?"

 

Eli snorted.  "He does not, for which we may all be devoutly grateful."

 

Clark's breath hitched a little bit, and Lex opened his eyes, wishing he could touch him.  "What will Mercy do with Atkins?"

 

Eli met Lex's gaze.  "Cricket—"

 

"Will she kill him?"

 

"I think not.  But I think he will wish she had."

 

"What does that mean?"

 

"It means she'll take him to Karloff," Lex said grimly.  "If anyone's having a worse night than we are—"

 

"I don't get it."  Clark blew out a breath.  "Whose side is she on?"

 

Lex couldn't help smiling.  Clark would never really understand this concept.  "Her own, if she's got any sense."

 

"Lex.  Not everybody's on their own side."  Clark's voice was very quiet.

 

Eli's eyes went very dark, and Lex felt his throat tighten.  "I know," he said.

 

Eli removed his coat and spread it over Lex.  "I should never have brought you here."

 

"Don't start that again."

 

Eli rested his hand on Lex's chest.  "I have been insane tonight."

 

"And this distinguishes tonight from every other night how, exactly?"

 

"I bring you here, of all places.  To the monsters who would destroy you I bring you."

 

"Yeah."  Lex curled his fingers around Eli's hand. 

 

Eli bent over him, his face drawn.  "I do not know why."

 

"Don't worry about it."

 

"I endangered your life."

 

"I wanted to come."

 

Eli fell silent, searching Lex's face. "I feared that if I remained close to you he would send me away," he said finally, his voice rough.  "Far away."

 

Lex nodded.  

. 

"I tried to protect you from a distance that would not provoke your father.  But I knew each time I saw you that I was failing.  I could not protect you from the devil in your own house."

 

"Eli, it's—"

 

"I cannot count the times I made plans to abduct you, to disappear with you into some remote village or wilderness where even Lionel Luthor could not find us."

 

"Why didn't you?" Lex whispered.  A childhood free of Lionel.  It was an old dream.

 

"I had promised your mother that you would have what is rightfully yours.  But they were all for nothing, your suffering and my promise."

 

"Were they?  I'm alive."

 

"And whatever does not kill you makes you stronger?"

 

"No, whatever doesn't kill me pisses me off," Lex snapped.  "Since when do you quote Nietzsche?" 

 

"I do not as a—"  Eli broke off at the sound of soft laughter from Clark, and cast a baleful look in the boy's direction.  "We are so amusing?"

 

"Uh-huh," was all the explanation forthcoming.

 

Lex summoned the strength to punch the back of the driver's seat.  "What?"

 

"Sorry.  It's just…you guys are _really _bad at this," Clark said, still laughing.

 

Eli turned back to Lex, one side of his mouth twitching upward.  "We will get better," he said, folding both of his hands around Lex's.

 

Lex said nothing, and held on tight.

 

***

 

_"This cowardly and vicious attack has cost the life of an innocent boy, and I will not rest until the person or persons responsible are brought to justice."_

I almost laugh at Lionel Luthor, champion of justice, but Kent's glower restrains me.  I am nonetheless proved correct.  On CNN, everyone looks silly.  I relax into the easy chair Mrs. Kent has deposited me into, enjoying the comfort all the more for the certainty that I have displaced the master of the house from his favorite perch.

 

_"My heart goes out to the parents of this boy."_

I am surprised to hear Luthor's voice break; he turns away from the reporters and strides back into the hospital, flanked by doctors and police.  I could swear I had seen tears in the man's eyes.

 

"His heart," Kent says in a tone that would slice raw meat.  "That's rich."

 

"I think he must have cared for Lucas," Pamela says gently.  She watches the television as she lies on the Kent's sofa; Alexander sits on the floor beside her, leaning close.  Her arm is about his shoulders.  It is sweet to see.  "And Alexander.  In his own way."  She caresses Alexander's shoulder, but his face is a grim mask.

 

"In his own way," Alexander says, his voice stained.

 

"I'm sorry, Ms. Jenkins," Kent says, obviously making an effort to modulate his tone, "But that man doesn't have an ounce of caring in him that isn't twisted by self-interest."

 

"As I said," Pamela says steadily.  "In his own way."

 

Kent shrugs.  I cannot help but smile to see him attempt to deal with yet another beautiful and formidable woman under his roof.  My plans for a muzzle may be rendered superfluous.  "That's not how a man should raise his son."

 

"My father doesn't raise sons, Mr. Kent.  He trains them."  Alexander's gaze is fixed on the images of his father flickering on the television screen.  There is an insatiable hunger in his eyes; I am grateful when his attention is diverted as Mrs. Kent and Clark descend the stairs.

 

"We're all ready for you," Mrs. Kent says to Pamela.  She speaks with an easy kindness that belies the fact that her quiet home is rapidly becoming a refugee camp.  "Clark, help Ms. Jenkins up the stairs."

 

"Pamela, please.  And I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble."  Pamela sits up as Alexander gently draws back the afghan that Mrs. Kent has spread over her guest.

 

"No trouble at all.  It's time that guest room was finally put to use."  Mrs. Kent shoots a rather arch look at Alexander, who flushes slightly and looks away.  Kent makes a snorting noise.  "Clark, why don't you give Pamela a hand up the stairs."

 

"I think I'll be all right."  Pamela braces herself against the arm of the sofa, but she looks drawn, drained.  Dying. 

 

I veer my thoughts away from what must soon come.  "Do not resist them, Pamela," I say.  "The Kents are not to be trifled with."

 

"You look tired," Clark says.  He lifts Pamela into his arms as if he is lifting a child's doll, and Pamela's eyes widen.

 

"He eats his Wheaties," Alexander says dryly. 

 

Pamela laughs as the cricket turns pink and draws her arm around his neck.  "I see."  She turns to Alexander.  "Will you be here when I wake up?" 

 

Her voice is weak, uncertain, but Alexander takes her hand and speaks steadily.  "I'll be here," he says, and kisses her cheek.

 

"Back in a minute," Clark murmurs to Alexander, as if he intends to carry him as well; Pamela is smiling as she is carried up the steps.  Mrs. Kent follows them up, talking to Pamela about what she would like to eat when she wakes.

 

"Is that bastard going to follow you here?" Kent asks in a soft voice.  "He has to know this is where you'd come first."

 

"He won't follow us," Alexander says before I can answer.  His gaze is locked on Clark and Pamela as they disappear.

 

"What makes you say so?" I ask sharply.

 

"His agenda has changed."  Alexander's voice is remote.  "He wants me to help him eliminate Karloff."

 

"Does he indeed."  I am both relieved and perplexed.  Surely a man with the resources Lionel Luthor has at his command could find other, more effective allies than Alexander.  "And what does he offer in return?"

 

"My rightful place in the world."  Alexander looks suddenly exhausted, as if a switch has been flipped.  "What I've been fighting for."

 

Kent is out of his chair and across the room before I can react; he takes Alexander by the shoulders.  "You need to get to bed.  Is your side hurting you?"

 

"I'm fine," Alexander says tonelessly as I come to his side. 

 

I watch as the boy stands still, allowing Kent to lift the t-shirt he is now wearing and examine the bandage beneath it with gentle hands.  "You need to rest."

 

Kent is good at this.  Fathering.  I am not so good.  "Sleep, Alexander.  We can talk about this later."

 

"Is he okay?"  The cricket is on the stairs again, moving toward us with the fierce frown he wears when Alexander is in danger.

 

Alexander's ice melts slightly; he turns toward Clark with his odd little half-smile.  "He's fine.  Breathe."

 

"Take him upstairs and make sure he sleeps for more than five minutes," Kent says to Clark, who nods.

 

Alexander's smile deepens.  "Thank you, Mr. Kent."  He turns toward Clark.

 

"Lex."  Kent's voice is suddenly gruff.  "Don't you think the 'Mr. Kent' thing is getting a little old?"

 

Alexander turns back, his face softening, the last of the ice vanishing.  "Yes," he says unsteadily.  "Thank you, Jonathan." 

 

"Good night, son."  Kent gives Alexander's shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and ruffles Clark's hair.  "It's good to have you both home safe."

 

Alexander swallows and nods to me as Clark, eyes like sea-green dinner plates, puts an arm around Alexander and leads him toward the stairs, obviously too shocked by his father's behavior to comment.

 

"Join me for a beer, Mr. Cohen?"  Kent strides to the kitchen on his long legs, and the edge to his tone tells me that the time of reckoning has arrived.

 

"Thank you, no," I say, following him at a more sedate pace.  "It is a little early in the day."

 

"It's a little late in _my_ day," Kent retorts, pulling a can from the refrigerator and popping the top.  "I've been up all night, wondering if Lex had gotten his head blown off, or if my son was sitting in jail."

 

"And now you know that neither is the case.  You must be greatly relieved."

 

"Porch," Kent snaps, walking toward the door; the front porch is evidently his favored location for _vantz_ ravings and summary executions.

 

Sighing, I follow him through the door to blink in the bright daylight.  The sun has risen.  This night I will bury in the desert is over.

 

"Screwed up pretty good, huh?"

 

Almost over.  "I beg your pardon?"

 

"Have you noticed that every time you show up, Lex gets shot?"  Kent takes a swig of his beer and leans against a post, eyeing me as one might a skunk or some other noxious vermin.

 

"Alexander leads a dangerous life."

 

"Isn't it your job to make it less dangerous?"

 

I long fervently for my cognac.  "It is."

 

"So you take him to the one place he's most likely to get shot."

 

I do not answer.

 

"You could have brought Pamela here.  Or had her transfer to a hospital nearby. Or—"

 

"Damn you, do you think I do not know this?"  I freeze, shocked by my outburst; I turn away from him, struggling to regain my control.  "I beg your pardon.  I have not been myself tonight."

 

"Are you sure you don't want some beer?"  Kent is beside me.  He is offering me the can of disgusting swill he has been drinking.

 

I take it.  "Thank you."  I throw back a couple of swallows, surprised to find it not quite so ghastly as I remembered.  Perhaps American beer has improved in the past twenty years.  Or perhaps my tastes have degenerated.  In either case, it is an emergency.

 

"It took a lot of courage for Lex to go see Pamela under his father's nose like that."  Kent leans on the railing, gazing at the sunrise, but I can feel his eye upon me.

 

"Alexander has never wanted for courage," I say, feeling oddly fascinated by my beer can.

 

"And a lot of generosity for him to forgive her."

 

I say nothing.

 

"Not what you were expecting, was it?"

 

"No," I say shortly.

 

"But what you were hoping for."

 

"Alexander has made a dying woman very happy."

 

"Has he made you happy?"

 

I drain the last of the beer from the can.

 

"You know, I was all over Lex a while back for putting Clark in danger.  But he didn't realize what he was doing.  He didn't think things through.  He thought he could control everything, find out what he wanted to know and still keep Clark safe."

 

I shake the can, but there is no more beer.

 

"But nobody can control everything.  Once things are set in motion, nobody can predict what will happen, no matter how smart or experienced or well-intentioned or…how good a soldier they are."

 

I turn to him, clutching the can.

 

"'Life's all coincidence,' you know?"  Kent is regarding me with a grave expression. 

 

"I do not believe in coincidence," I say, but I know I am lying.

 

Kent smiles as if he can read my mind.  "Another beer?"

 

***

 

"You could have let me carry you."  Clark eased Lex into a sitting position on the bed and knelt in front of him to remove Lex's shoes. 

 

"Forget it."  Lex was afflicted with a sudden and powerful wave of déjà vu.  "I've been carried too much as it is.  It's damaging my alpha male standing in the pack."

 

A soft knock made Lex look up; Martha opened the door enough to look inside.  "Do you boys need anything?"

 

"We're good," Clark said.  "How's Pamela?"

 

"Already asleep.  Lex, do you have—"  Lex raised the bottle of ibuprofen solemnly from the nightstand, and Martha's face relaxed into a smile.  "Do you two think you can manage to stay out of trouble for a few hours?"

 

Clark blurred in her direction to materialize wrapped around her, but the surprise attack appeared to leave Martha unfazed; the remaining tension in her face faded away as she put her arms around her son and rested her head on his chest. 

 

Lex smiled, dropping his gaze to the pink socks on his feet.  "I don't know, Mrs. Kent.  Clark and I live for danger."

 

Martha broke from her son's embrace and bent to kiss Lex's cheek.  "Live for something else for a few days," she whispered in his ear.

 

"We can do that," Lex whispered back.

 

Martha took a deep breath and straightened.  "Get some sleep, both of you."  She slipped out the door, touching Clark's cheek as she passed.

 

Clark closed the door, kicked off his shoes and stripped off his shirt, then knelt in front of Lex again.  He stared at the pink socks.  "I don't live for danger," Clark said to Lex's feet.

 

Lex raised an eyebrow, wriggling his toes.  "Excuse me?"

 

"I don't live for danger."

 

"Clark, it was a joke."

 

"And I don't think you do either."

 

Lex restrained his impatience with difficulty.  "It's been a long night.  Is there a point concealed somewhere in that observation?"

 

Clark lifted his head.  "Do you want to die?"

 

Lex stared blankly for a moment, then sighed and rubbed his eyes.  "On the other hand, circuitous, evasive, and misleading conversation is a dying art, and I feel compelled to defend it with my last dastardly breath."

 

"Dad asked me once if you had a death wish."

 

Lex lifted his head sharply.  "And what did you say?"

 

"That sometimes I thought so."

 

Lex suppressed a surge of irritation.  "I missed.  It happens.  It had nothing to do with a death wish or any other psychological disorder your father read about on the back of his cereal box."

 

"I could have handled it, Lex.  You didn't give me a chance."

 

"In case you haven't noted the trend, witnesses are not conducive to your well-being."  Lex congratulated himself on the logic of his argument, despite the fact that witnesses had been the last thing on his mind when he'd stepped in front of Eli.

 

"Fine.  Then from now on I'll wear a mask." 

 

God, he looked serious.  Lex started to laugh, ignoring the pain in his side.  "A mask?"

 

"Yeah, you know.  A disguise."

 

"What…what kind of disguise?  Tinky-Winky?  Tinkerbelle?  Sheena, Queen of the Jungle?"

 

Clark's eyes narrowed.  "You have some problem with not getting shot, Lex?"

 

"Don't be absurd."

 

Clark put Lex on his back so quickly that Lex gasped up at him in surprise, his laughter dying in his throat.  Clark straddled him on all fours, bending over him, his mouth in a grim twist Lex had never seen before. "I'm not absurd, Lex.  I'm just very, very serious about keeping you alive."

 

"Relax," Lex breathed, thoroughly unnerved.  "We're on the same page."

 

"Are we?"

 

"Absolutely.  The sanctity of human life has never been more apparent to me."

 

Clark looked unconvinced.  "You're going to help me figure this out.  You're going to help me find a way to make the moves and not be seen."

 

"Whatever you say.  Could you move your leg just a little to the—"

 

"I don't ever want to wake up and find you gone."

 

Lex froze, staring up at Clark's white face and bright eyes.

 

"Do you get it?" Clark whispered.

 

"Yes," Lex whispered back.

 

"You scared the hell out of me."

 

"Clark—"

 

"If you ever do anything that idiotic again, I'll smack you upside your dumb-ass shiny head."  Clark's voice broke.

 

"Clark."  Lex heard his own breathing, harsh and erratic, as the image of his wild charge up the stairs flashed past his mind's eye.  "Have you ever been afraid of your father?"

 

Clark's breath hitched slightly.  "We've been mad at each other," he said unsteadily. "Really mad.  But never afraid, Lex."

 

Lex nodded, reaching up to lay a hand on Clark's cheek.  "When my father told me he wanted us to be a family—"  His throat closed up; he saw Clark's fierce expression soften.

 

"You wanted to believe him," Clark murmured, turning his head to kiss Lex's palm.

 

"No," Lex said thickly.  "I didn't want to believe him.  I _did_ believe him."

 

Clark searched his face for a moment, nodded, and lay on his side beside him, his head resting against Lex's.

 

"I _did _believe him," Lex whispered, turning his head toward Clark.  "Just…for a few seconds."  Clark nuzzled him gently.  "God. Clark."

 

"Just breathe."  Clark slipped his hand under Lex's shirt, careful of the bandages, to caress his chest.  Clark was always careful.

 

Lex tried to obey, but found his chest constricted by more than sore ribs and bandages.  "I don't want to die."

 

Clark kissed him, and did it so thoroughly that Lex actually felt himself going hard.  He yanked Clark closer, sliding one of his legs between Clark's, and pulled Clark's caressing hand from his chest to guide it lower.  Clark broke away, looking surprised.  "Lex?"

 

"Touch me," Lex muttered, drawing him close again. 

 

"You need to sleep," Clark murmured back, but he was already undoing Lex's fly.

 

"No.  I need to feel you."  Lex slipped his hand around Clark's as its warmth slid slowly down the length of his hardening cock.  "Just...like that."

 

"Me, too."  Clark breathed the words into Lex's ear, then licked it tentatively.  "All the time."

 

"Slow," Lex whispered, guiding Clark's hand.  "Slow.  Make it last a long time."

 

"We'll last a long time."  Clark's mouth claimed his again, hard and deep, and Lex had to fight to stay quiet.  He slid his hand between Clark's warm skin and the waistband of his sweatpants, and Clark fumbled to pull the pants down with his free hand.  He was already hard.  "God, Lex.  You're so hot."

 

"Oh, yes, I know."  Lex did his level best not to sound as breathless as he felt.  He licked Clark's cheek and curled his fingers around Clark's cock, caressing it with long, languorous strokes that made Clark's breath quicken and his eyes darken. "But tell me all about it anyway.  In detail."

 

"Uh... You have...really nice eyes, Lex."

 

Lex suppressed a grin at the mischief in those eyes and thrust gently into Clark's hand.  "Try again."

 

"You have a great personality?"

 

Lex actually laughed, and Clark kissed him again, and Lex began to suspect that he wasn't going to last a long time. 

 

"I'm glad you think about fucking me.  I _want_ you to think about fucking me," Clark rasped in his ear, his hand moving faster despite Lex's attempt to slow him down.  "I think about you fucking me all the time."

 

"You're saying 'fucking' an awful lot, Clark." Lex closed his eyes.  He didn't stand a chance of lasting while he could see that impossibly beautiful, loving face.  He didn't stand a chance of lasting while he could hear Clark trying to talk dirty, either, but this might buy him a few more seconds.  "You hardly ever say that."

 

"I think about me on my hands and knees—"

 

"Did you drop something?"

 

"And you're fucking me so hard—"

 

"Ah," Lex said faintly.  Details had been a bad idea. 

 

"—that I'm shaking all over and it feels so _good—_"

 

"Christ."

 

"And then I start thinking about fucking _you._"

 

Lex was vaguely aware, and considerably irked, that his response to this was completely nonverbal.

 

"And you like it."

 

Lex devoutly hoped that the noise he was making indicated approval.

 

"And so I fuck you harder."

 

Lex groaned through clenched teeth.

 

"Open your eyes," Clark grated.  "I want you to see—"

 

Lex opened his eyes in time to see Clark's wild expression as he came, hear his little gasp and swallowed cry, feel his hot come spill over their hands and stomachs as Clark's body shook against his.  Lex felt a stab of panic as his brain excused itself and left the room; he immediately came, and opened his mouth to shout the usual ecstatic idiocies that sex with Clark inevitably produced.  To his relief, Clark, with either great presence of mind or overpowering lust, sealed his mouth over Lex's, smothering the words and giving Lex's tongue something else to think about. 

 

Clark rolled over onto his back with Lex in his arms, kissing him, and Lex cooperated fully, ignoring the mess that threatened to glue his shirt to Clark's chest.  Clark finally broke away, dropping some clumsy and enthusiastic kisses along Lex's jaw, and Lex rested his head beneath Clark's chin and lay there, breathing, and listening to Clark's heart pound in his chest.  "I don't want to die," Lex whispered again, knowing it was true this time.

 

Clark's arms tightened around his shoulders.  "You're not going to die," he whispered back.  "I've got you, Lex."

 

"_He_ nearly had me."

 

"He didn't come anywhere close to having you."  Clark was quiet and fierce.  "He'll never have you."

 

"I believed him.  I know he's never done anything but lie to me, and I _believed _him."  Clark was silent, one hand moving gently across Lex's back.  "I wanted my 'rightful place,' even when I didn't know what he meant by the phrase.  I wanted it just because he offered it."

 

"Do you know what it means now?" Clark asked softly. 

 

Lex shrugged.  "My father says my place is what it's always been."

 

"Did you like that place?"

 

Lex was silent for a moment.  Clark had a nasty habit of asking strange and disturbing questions.  "Liking it was beside the point."  He paused, but Clark didn't answer.  "What?"

 

"Nothing.  It's just…I think maybe you have to make your own rightful place, Lex.  If you want it to be really yours."

 

Lex blinked.  "Make it?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Make my place."  Clark never ceased to amaze him.  "I'm a Luthor."

 

"Well, maybe you're a different kind of Luthor."

 

"A different _kind_?"

 

"Yeah.  You know.  Your own kind."

 

"The kind that accepts defeat gracefully?" Lex asked sharply.

 

"Defeat?"  Clark's voice rose in amazement.  "You _won _tonight, Lex."

 

Lex raised a skeptical eyebrow.  "My father and Karloff seem blissfully unaware of this victory, Clark."

 

"You got two important pieces of your life back."

 

"Pieces Karloff didn't want."

 

"Do _you _want them?"

 

"Yes," Lex said instantly.  God, yes.  His voice thickened.  "Yes.  I want them."

 

"Then screw Karloff."

 

Lex drew a steadying breath.  "Your language has taken a shocking turn for the worse lately, Jiminy."

 

"You _won_," Clark repeated emphatically, for once not rising to the bait.  "And I don't think you should let your father decide what your place is."

 

"I'm not."  Lex dismissed his unease.  "I'm a Luthor, Clark, and that life is my destiny."

 

Clark sighed the sigh of one dealing with the hopelessly dense.  "Are we back to sausages and socks again?"

 

"You really must cultivate an appreciation for destiny, Jiminy."

 

"And you really must cultivate an appreciation for coincidence, mastermind."

 

"It was not coincidence," Lex returned with all the hauteur he could muster while wearing pink socks, "that I was born a Luthor."

 

Clark laughed at him.  "No.  Just bad luck." Clark rolled over, gently depositing Lex on his back and cradling his upper body in his arms.  He was a vision of post-coital disarray; hair tousled, bare chest wet with their come, that ridiculous, loving smile all over his face.

 

Lex felt himself going hard again and formally gave himself up as a lost cause.  "Most people on the planet would consider it a staggering piece of _good _luck."

 

Clark shook his head. "Not as many as you think, Lex."

 

"Are you suggesting bad luck is my destiny?"

 

Clark chuckled.  "No more than sausages or socks are."  He ran a finger along Lex's jaw.  "'Give me today, for once, the worst throw of your dice, destiny. Today I transmute everything into gold.'"

 

Lex glared at him.  "Must I have that moron Friedrich Nietzsche quoted to me twice in one night?"

 

"Day."

 

"Whatever."

 

"Okay, how about this?"  Clark bent closer.  "'There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, that can hinder or control the firm resolve of a determined soul.'"  He dropped a soft kiss on Lex's mouth.

 

Lex's throat went tight; he touched Clark's face.  "And what misguided lunatic wrote that?" he whispered.

 

Clark grinned.  "Someone named Ella Wheeler Wilcox."

 

Lex pulled himself together enough for a snort.  "Meanwhile, back at the ranch, our cricket ventures bravely into the realm of obscure literary reference.  Will he find himself tied to some inapt metaphorical train tracks?"

 

Clark rolled his eyes.  "Geez, Lex.  You are _really _getting punchy."  He slid a pillow under Lex's head and curled himself around him.  "Sleep."

 

"Not that I object to your exposure to obscure literature per se."

 

"Lex."  Clark flipped the covers over both of them and nestled close, closing his eyes.  "Go to sleep.  We can talk about it later."

 

"After all, every evil genius needs a literate minion."

 

Clark sighed and opened one eye.  "You do know what Eli would say about this."

 

"About what?  Literacy, destiny, resolve, sausages or socks?"

 

"All of the above.  He'd say that you're as much an Edouard as you are a Luthor."

 

Lex frowned, disconcerted.  It was exactly what Eli would say.  And he would be right.  Odd that he'd never considered his destiny as his _mother's _son.  "And what do you say?"

 

Clark opened his other eye.  "I say you're the most determined soul I've ever known."  Lex swallowed, finding it difficult to meet the unwavering faith in those dark eyes head-on; he watched in fascination as that loving smile turned teasing.  "Besides, one look at those socks—"

 

"Don't for a moment imagine I didn't see that coming."

 

"—and destiny would fall down laughing."

 

"Clark.  If you're having second thoughts about helping me get my life back—"

 

"Don't be stupid."  Clark glared at him.   "I want to help you get your life back.  I just want _you_ to be the one to decide what it's like when you do."

 

"That may be an issue sooner than we expected."  Lex turned onto his good side to drape an arm around Clark's waist.  "He wants me back, Clark."

 

"Yeah."  Clark's expression was grim.  "So he says."

 

"He wants me in my rightful place."

 

"And you trust him?"

 

Lex barked a harsh laugh.  "Not as far as you could throw him.  But I know a desperate man when I see one.  He wants my help."

 

"I don't care what he wants.  What do _you _want?  What's your rightful place?"

 

"I don't know, Clark," Lex said quietly. "Right now, you're the only place that feels right."

 

Clark studied him for a moment.  "I'm sorry about Lucas," he whispered.

 

Lex nodded, wordless.

 

"You're my only right place, too." Clark drew his arm around Lex's shoulders. "We're going to figure all this out, Lex.  But not now."

 

"Clark—"

 

"So this is the plan.  We're going to sleep."

 

Lex lifted an eyebrow, ignoring his aching throat.  "This plan lacks a certain dynamic quality."

 

One side of Clark's mouth quirked up.  "That's the beauty of it.  And when we're done sleeping, we'll wake up."

 

"Sheer genius."

 

"I haven't got to the best part."

 

Lex tilted his head, angling his mouth toward Clark's.  "Tell me the best part," he breathed.

 

Clark was laughing when Lex's mouth touched his.  "I'll be here when you wake up."

 


End file.
